Faith
by Eva7673
Summary: After an explosion in suburban Houston Clint, Phil and the newly recruited Natalia Romanov, are sent spiralling into the path of bio-chemical terrorists, bureaucracy and the redheaded assassin's dark past. Tensions are high as trust between the three becomes strained, and Natalia's true colours are thrust into the light. One blood stain at a time. (Sequel to 'Rebirth')
1. All The Faults You've Left Behind

**CHAPTER 1 –**

' **ALL THE FAULTS YOU'VE LEFT BEHIND'**

Disclaimer - I do not own the avengers or any of the characters within it. Unfortunately.

* * *

"In the beginning there was faith - which is childish; trust - which is vain; and illusion - which is dangerous."

― Elie Wiesel, _Night_

* * *

 _Thunk._

Clint was beginning to believe that there was no sound quite as hollow as a baseball hitting plaster.

 _Thunk_.

Again.

 _Thunk._

Again.

 _Thunk._

And again.

"I swear to god Clint, if you throw that ball one more time-"

"SIX MONTHS!" Clint moaned throwing the ball again despite his handler's clenched teeth, letting it bounce off all four walls in the room, and flinging his head back against his chair. "Six whole months of nothing Phil! Nothing! Not one assignment, hell not even a surveillance gig! I haven't been allowed to leave this base in six damn months-"

"-I told you, I can get you on an assignment with a tac-team if-"

"-I don't want to work with a tac-team!" Clint groaned, slouching down further into his chair across from Phil. He'd been sat in his handlers office for over three hours now, having been practically thrown from the firing range after _just_ making one too many trick shots with his bow. What had started as an early morning practice session quickly had become a show of acrobatic integrity when one of the junior agents had challenged him to an almost impossible shot. Almost. The fact that said agent was a fiercely intelligent and attractive female probably had something to do with the situation getting out of hand, but at that point Clint would have challenged an inanimate object to a shooting match if it meant escaping the dullness of everyday life on base.

From across the desk Phil finally looked up from his pile of paperwork to throw Clint one of his more impressive glares, apparently even his handlers patience was running thin.

"Well it's that or nothing Cli-"

"Argh!" Clint groaned over him. He threw his baseball again, letting it rebound of each wall and Phil's desk that sat between them before catching it effortlessly. "You know I can't work with them! I'm a solo show Phil. Teams just get in the way." Clint argued, flinging the baseball at the roof of the office and letting it hit the desk between him and the handler once more before catching it in one swift scoop and continuing. "Besides, they all hate me." He grumbled. "They'd probably gun me down for the fun of it."

He threw the ball again, letting it hit the wall beside him before it bounced to the desk, but this time Phil swiped it out of the air before Clint had even reached for it.

" _Really?_ " His handler forced through his clenched teeth as he pelted the ball into the trashcan at the door. "I can't possibly imagine why."

"Jesus, it's final!" Clint wailed, throwing his limbs out wildly. He was now so slouched in the chair that he looked like some kind of dilapidated starfish with its limbs hanging off all sides of the wooden chair frame. "Even your old man reflexes are faster than mine. This is it. My life is over. I can feel the icy winds of death. I might as well retire, buy a golf set and sit around telling everyone about 'ma' good ol' days'."

"Is that not what you've been doing for the last three hours?" Phil retorted, not even sparing a glance from his paperwork, which he had returned to now that it was no longer in danger of a rebounding baseball. "Minus the golf set." He added, before considering the words more deeply and continuing. "And golf isn't just for retired people, lots of younger-"

"SIX GOD-DAMN MONTHS PHIL!"

With one final groan of frustration Phil finally threw away his pen and sat back in his chair to stare at Clint stonily.

"What did you expect Clint?" He asked, clearly trying to keep his temper in check but failing miserably. Clint could see the vein in his neck throbbing, as it always did when he ran out of patience. "You not only went against direct orders and refused to eliminate a threat to _global_ security, you brought that threat _home with you_. You really thought that people here were just going to accept that?" He shook his head exhaustedly and, not for the first time in the last six months, Clint felt a twinge of regret at how much stress his handler was clearly under. "Trust me, suspension was better than you deserved." Phil said.

Clint's head snapped up.

"You really think that?" He asked solemnly, voice hardening and all remnants of playfulness seeping from him. In the months since the disastrous mission in Berlin there had been something between himself and Phil, something that no matter what the two did they couldn't get passed. Couldn't get back to where they had been before.

Romanov.

She had been released from holding only two weeks after being delivered to the base by Clint, and was now well into S.H.I.E.L.D introductory training – and killing it.

The organisation had never seen test scores like hers before. Though her marksmanship skills weren't quite up to Clint's she had risen to second place on the scoreboard in the range in only one session. Her long distance accuracy was pretty damn good, and her close-range accuracy even better, but it was clear from day one that she hadn't earned her title with guns alone.

Her hand-to-hand was incredible. For someone so small every hit she landed felt like he was being smacked with a concrete block. He had sparred with agents who were close to seven foot, with hundreds of pounds on her, and most of them hadn't been able to land a punch quite like her. It was not strength that made the hits so forceful – though she certainly had plenty of that – it was that she knew exactly where to land them. Every hit was so perfectly aimed that without fault each hit sensitive areas that Clint hadn't even known existed. And some he did.

God he was sore.

Romanov had been removed from general training on her first day after landing the trainer in the infirmary, so with a lack of other options Phil had volunteered Clint to spar with her. Twice a day. Everyday.

It had been a long six months.

"I don't know Clint." Phil sighed after a few moments of silence. "That's what I'm afraid of. That we wont know until it's too late to do anything about it."

"You still think she's faking it?" Clint asked, suddenly feeling just as exhausted as Phil looked. They had had this discussion dozens of times now. "That she's just lying in wait to kill us all?"

"I think that we can't be sure." He said, running his fingers through his hair and starting to gather the papers strewn across his desk. "And that doesn't sit well with me." Clint nodded slowly but said nothing. There was no point. Neither of them had any proof that the other was wrong – all they could do was wait.

Phil stopped his filing when Clint remained silent, an uncommon reaction from the archer.

"I want to believe you," He said earnestly, and Clint believed him. He could see the internal war within Phil, the part of him that could never put even the slightest trust in someone like Romanov, and the other part that trusted Clint completely. "I do, it's just – it's not just her life that's on the line with this one."

Phil's voice lost its typical force by the time he fell silent. Instead he sounded nothing short of exhausted and _terrified_. Clint had known that the thought of what might happen to him, should Romanov turn out to be nothing more than a murderous sky, had kept Phil up at night. Kept his handler forever preparing to protect him as best as possible should the day come, but Clint hadn't seen just how terrified Phil was that none of that would be enough.

That Clint would be executed with her.

"I know Overwatch," Clint said, wanting to reassure him but coming up with nothing. He was going on faith and he knew it.

Any further discussion of Romanov was cut short when a senior agent appeared at Phil's office and knocked quickly despite the door being wide open from Clint's flamboyant entrance hours earlier.

"Come in." Phil said, beckoning the agent with a quick flick of his fingers.

"Agent Coulson," The man nodded in greeting, his shoulders pulled back and arms clasped behind his back as if he got points for good posture. His lips morphed into a scowl when Clint threw him a girly wave from the seat across from Phil, but other than that he completely ignored him. Most agents did.

"Barkley." Phil nodded in return before getting straight down to business. "You have something for me?"

"Somewhat, sir." Barkley answered, his scowl deepening.

"It's a yes or no question Agent." Phil answered briskly, rising from this chair to file the last of his paperwork in the meticulously ordered draws against the far wall of his office. If there was one thing Phil Coulson didn't stand for, it was people who came to his office just to waste time.

It was a wonder in itself that Clint hadn't been thrown out the minute he arrived.

"Then yes, sir, I-" The agent threw a frustrated look towards the door and Clint swivelled a little in his chair to follow his gaze.

At first he saw nothing until the smallest of movements just beside the doorframe caught his quick eyes and he could make out the form of another man standing just out of sight.

The man was so skinny that Clint almost looked right passed him.

He stood just behind the doorway, shifting into view every few seconds as he risked a glance into the office only to pull away instantly when he saw Clint looking his way. His oversized sweater, large glasses and complete lack of any visible muscle mass marked him as an analyst more clearly than the lanyard that Clint could just make out dangling around his neck.

As he pulled away from the door, clearly aware that he had been caught peaking in on his superiors and that Agent Barkley wasn't going to be happy about it, Clint caught the quickest flash of silver. His belt. Clint recognised it immediately.

It was the limited edition ACDC belt Clint had been drooling over the last time he was in the city. A belt that Clint knew to be ' _inappropriate for the workplace_ ' after he showed it to Phil, claiming that he was going to wear it with every pair of pants he owned. He hadn't had a chance to sneak back into the city and buy it before the shit with Romanov had gone down and he'd been sentenced to the base.

Hmm. A little rebel then.

Clint liked him already.

"You what?" Phil broke Clint from his attempts to spot the analyst again, turning back to see a still frustrated Agent Barkley facing an irritated Phil Coulson.

"I have something that may interest you, sir." The agent finally barked out, standing up a little straighter as he said it and holding out a large file, although clearly begrudgingly.

Phil took it promptly and sat back down at his desk, opening the file and scanning it quickly.

"What am I looking at Barkley?" He asked without looking up, spreading the pages out and flipping through them expertly.

"A bombing, sir." The Agent replied.

"I can see that," Phil said, looking up from the file to give Barkley one of his more frustrated stares. "Why exactly am I looking at it?"

"It's from a bombing in suburban Houston just a few days ago." The Agent explained, getting more and more agitated as he remained under Phil's stare.

"Yes. I can see that too." Phil huffed, "What I'm asking is, why have you brought it to me? If it has relevant information then take it to the Homeland Department-"

"It may have connections to the bombing in Berlin." The Agent said all at once before throwing another glare towards the door and the now clearly peaking analyst. Clint could just make out the edges of his glasses from beside the doorway nodding along with the Barkley's words.

Now that got Phil's attention.

He immediately looked back down at the file in his hands, shifting through the pages of data more extensively. "What makes you think that the bombing of a middle school teacher and his wife in Houston has anything to do with my case?" Phil asked, reading each page carefully.

"Ugh, well, there _may_ be some similarities-" Barkley began, shifting uncomfortably.

"This your work Agent?" Phil asked, staring at each page with more and more interest, as he got further into the file. Clint sat up a little straighter in his seat to try and steal a glance but all he could see were various, upside-down, chemical diagrams.

"Ugh-" Barkley began again only to be cut off this time by Clint.

"Nope."

Phil looked up at the archer and raised an eyebrow.

"Pretty sure it belongs to the analyst at the door." Clint said, jabbing his thumb towards where the analyst was still half visible despite his attempts to hide behind the doorframe.

Phil, finally catching sight of the analyst hiding behind his door, turned his raised eyebrow to Barkley. "That true Agent?"

"Technically yes sir," Barkley said quickly. "He's a junior analyst, and I know there are regulations – that anything he finds has to go through a senior analyst and a senior agent before it comes to you – but he was insistent and threatened to bring it to you himself if I didn't give it to you. I tried to tell him that we have procedure for a reason and-"

"Bring him in." Phil said over the Agents ramblings.

Barkley nodded immediately before looking back towards the door. "Nolan! Get in here. Now." He called.

Clint had to give the analyst credit. He didn't hesitate for even a second. He was right beside Barkley the moment that his name was called.

"Yes sir?" He said, nodding politely at Phil while ignoring Barkley completely, much to the Agent's clear distain.

Yep. Clint definitely liked this one.

"This your work?" Phil tapped the file but didn't look away from the analyst.

"It is sir." He replied at once.

"And what about it is so important that you decided it was worth skipping all procedure to get it to my desk." Phil asked plainly.

"The fact that it should have been on your desk as soon as it arrived four days ago." The Analyst replied fearlessly and without even a pause.

"Why?" Phil asked, leaning back and pushing the file forwards so that the analyst could explain it more to him.

The analyst's small, relieved sigh gave away his unwarranted fear that he would be turned away before given the chance to explain himself.

Phil had never, and probably would never, turn away anyone with possible information away before giving them a chance to prove it to him – no matter who they were. It wasn't in his nature. That precise nature was why Clint was so taken aback that Phil wasn't more on board when it came to the Romanov situation. Perhaps the handler had finally found a situation where he believed the risk of trusting the redheaded assassin outweighed any possible intelligence.

"The explosive residue sir," The analyst began at once with a practised calm, as if he had rehearsed this explanation before coming to the office. He pulled the file apart expertly before placing two different chemical diagrams in front of Phil for the older man to see, one clearly marked as from Berlin and the other from the more recent Houston bombing.

"These look completely different? How are they connected?" Phil asked, staring down at the pages, and Clint had to agree. He may not have a degree in biochemistry, but he didn't need one to see that the squiggly lines didn't match up at all.

"They are completely different sir," The analyst answered. "But only on paper. I've been researching the bomb from Berlin for months now and it's fascinating. No one has ever seen anything quite like it – or so they assumed because no one has been able to link it to any other bombings."

"And you have?" Phil prompted, clearing wanting to get to the point.

"Yes sir." The analysed nodded profusely. "I've been working on a theory that I got from examining fragments of the Berlin explosion." He said earnestly. "Samples were first taken and tested only hours after the bomb was detonated, but the strange thing is when more samples were taken later on to be stored and tested, they didn't match. Each fragment appeared to be made of completely different materials, so the original report was thrown away – labelled as a lab error."

"And you disagree." Phil assumed, one again looking at the two chemical reports.

"I do sir." The analyst said with absolute surety. "I believe that these bombs are built to degrade over time. That as hours and days pass each chemical fades and alters so that-"

"So that they can never be linked to one another." Phil finished, staring at the chemical diagrams with a frown.

"Yes sir," The analyst replied once again, clearly relieved that Phil saw the importance of the file.

"Can you prove this?" Phil asked, motioning towards the file.

"Yes. I've run extensive testing – that's how I was able to link this attack to the Berlin case. Although the chemicals are very different, following the time line of estimated decomposition from the Berlin explosion and how long the samples were taken after the Houston explosion occurred, they are a perfect match."

"It was the same bomb." Phil summarised and the analyst nodded profusely.

"Phil," Clint began slowly, staring at the chemical diagrams as something occurred to him. "If no one else has picked up on this there could have been dozens of these things and no one would have linked them."

Phil's eyes snapped back towards the analyst.

"Is that possible?"

The analyst nodded again, though this time a little more hesitantly. "Theoretically, yes sir." He said. "There could have been hundreds for all we know. I, ugh," He threw a glance back towards Barkley for the first time, but continued despite his discomfort, "I tried to compare my findings to other cases but I didn't have the security clearance to examine any that remain unsolved."

Clint barked out a laugh.

"That's analyst speak for ' _I didn't have clearance so I hacked in anyway cause I knew I was right_ '." Clint chuckled and the analyst went pale.

Phil looked back towards the analyst who, despite his obvious tension, met the older man's gaze none the less.

"Did you find any other open cases?" Phil asked evenly.

"Ugh, no sir." The analyst answered, though not quite as quickly as before and with much more hesitance. "Not yet, sir. I only started a few days ago."

"Which database did you search?" Phil responded immediately.

"The FBI sir."

Phil nodded, glancing down at the documents in front of him one more time before answering. "Good."

The analyst's obvious double take was almost comical.

"Good, sir?" He questioned slowly as Barkley's expression became slowly more outraged.

"Yes." Phil nodded, looking up at the more than a little confused analyst. "You got the easy one out of the way. The CIA's next, then Homeland, Interpol, Mossad and anyone else you can think of. I want to have a full list on my desk as soon as possible."

After a couple of quick blinks and the sight of Phil's serious eyes the analyst nodded profusely, "Yes sir. Absolutely."

"Agent Coulson?" Barkley spluttered, his eyes filled with indignation as he stared down the calm, older man. Phil's clear dismissal of the analyst's breaches of protocall seemed to offend him on a personal level. "He broke protocol, let alone federal laws, what should I do with him?"

Phil glanced at the analyst who stood stock-still, clearly nervous, but also visibly sure of himself. There was not a hint of regret about the young tech.

"Promote him." Phil said and the analyst's eyes widened, though not nearly as much as Barkley's. His eyes seemed to grow wider and more outraged by Phil's every syllable.

Before Barkley could comment Phil stood from his chair and nodded towards the analyst. "What's your name?" He asked.

"Nolan sir, Julian Nolan." The analyst said, still somewhat dazed as if his brain couldn't quite wrap itself around what was happening. Clint couldn't blame him.

"Well Nolan head down to O'Connell on the fourth floor and ask him for a level six clearance badge, get him to call me for authorisation. You work for me now." Phil ordered, sorting through the documents on his desk until they were all once again secured in the folder. "Once you're done, meet me in records and we'll start going over all of this. I want a full debrief on everything in this file before we get started on finding other incidences. There is no room for error on this one."

"Yes sir. Thank-you sir." Nolan nodded so quickly that Clint was surprised he didn't stumble as he backed out of the room and started quickly towards the elevator.

Barkley gaped after him but didn't move a muscle.

"This isn't a casino Barkley," Phil said as he moved the last of the paperwork on his desk into the cabinets behind him. "You don't get free drinks just for hanging around. You got something to say, say it. If not, door's that way." He nodded towards the still open door and waited for a moment while the Agent just stared at him.

"No sir." Barkley said finally, though clearly with great effort. Clint guessed that he had quite a lot to say to Phil about protocall and what he thought was the correct way to discipline out of line personal, but he stayed silent. Just.

Without another word he stormed from the office.

For a moment there was silence as both men watched him thunder down the hall.

" _That_ ," Clint said, pointing towards where Barkley had disappeared around the corner, "Was the most action I've seen in the last month. This is what I've been reduced to, relying on 'hall-monitor-Barkley' for excitement." He groaned.

"You'll live." Phil said dryly, locking his filing cabinets and tucking his keys away in his pocket.

"I will," Clint grumbled, slouching down further in his chair. "Can't guarantee the same for everyone else on the base if this keeps going much longer-" He cut off suddenly as Phil dawned his suit jacket and straightened his tie.

"Where are you going?" Clint asked, sitting up straight for the first time in hours.

"To see if I can get some more intel on this while Nolan's being cleared." Phil replied switching off the office lights and moving towards the door.

Clint jumped up from his seat and followed just inches behind.

"I can help. I'm an excellent-" He began, practically desperate for something _real_ to do.

"-While I'm sure that whatever you were going to say was going to be both tasteful and humble," Phil cut him off, locking his office door and before to face Clint with a stern look that meant nothing good. "You have a medical appointment that you can not miss _again_."

"Ugh, come on." Clint rolled his eyes. "Clearly a bombing takes precedence."

"Not for you. You're on probation. You shouldn't even be hearing about this." Phil argued with a shrug, not nearly as apologetic as Clint thought he should be.

"Aww, come on Phil-" Clint began, but he knew it was a lost cause.

"Nope. Out." The handler gave him a small shove towards the elevator. "I better hear from Mohinder that you were there or there's going to be hell to pay."

"Fine." Clint's temper finally snapped. "But you can't keep punishing me forever. One day you're going to have to admit that I was right." He fumed at his handler, who seemed more than a little taken aback by the sudden change of temperature in the conversation. "That not only does she want to be here, she deserves to be. We both do."

With that Clint stormed away, perfectly aware that while the outburst may have been a little harsh on his part – he had broken his contract with S.H.I.E.L.D in almost every way by sparing Romanov – that didn't change the fact that he was right.

He just needed to find a way to show Phil that.

* * *

Phil was still going over Clint's words an hour later as he wound his way through the base's halls to Fury's office. He really shouldn't have been so surprised that Clint finally lost his temper with the situation. If anything he should have been surprised that it didn't happen sooner. Though, knowing the kid as Phil did, he was sure that Clint had been silently stewing for days.

That was Clint through and through. You didn't know he was angry until he's tearing you a new one.

Phil couldn't deny that he felt slightly bad about the situation. He could see how hard Clint was trying to earn his way back in. To prove that he was worthy of his place, and even more so that Romanov was worthy of hers. Phil saw them everyday, twice a day, just as he had ordered, down in the sparing ring until neither of them can take another hit.

If it had been any other case Phil would have let him along. Anything else and Phil would probably have put him in the field, even if it was just a milk run of an opp. He wasn't trying to be cruel. He missed having the kid in the field. God knows things got done when he did.

More than that, he had grown accustom to it as well. He missed going out in the field with Clint. Solving the hardest puzzles. Eliminating the worst criminals. Hell, he even missed pulling his hair out in worry as Clint pulled the most ridiculous of stunts to get the job done.

Phil missed all of it.

But he couldn't bring the archer along for this one. There was too much at stake and, as much as he wished it weren't true, Clint was compromised at the moment. His career, and _life_ , was on the line enough already.

And Phil couldn't put it any more at risk.

As soon as the analyst had connected the dots Phil had known exactly where he had to go for answers, where all answers seemed to lie lately, and that was somewhere Clint could not follow objectively.

Or, more accurately, _someone_ the kid could not follow objectively.

He reached Fury's office but didn't bother to knock. Instead he let himself inside with pause and moved to the centre of the room where Fury stood already, staring down with his one good eye at another figure who was seated in the just behind the director's desk.

Even from the doorway Phil spotted her red hair at once.

"Romanov," Phil began as he fell in line with Fury, staring down at the woman impassively. "We have some questions for you."

* * *

Ta da!

Finally! I know, I know! I'm a cruel bastard having made you wait this long for a sequel, but in my defence the last year has been quite hectic for me. I had double subjects at University so that I could take the last three months off and travel to America! It was awesome! So sorry for the wait but fear not, it's over!

I will be updating once a week until the stories finished so keep an eye out and I hope you like where I'm heading.

I know Phil's being a bit of a hard-ass when it comes to Natasha but (and will continue to be so for a while) but don't worry its just him having a freak out that she's going to murder them all! He'll come around eventually!

Hope you liked this chapter, if so drop me a line so I know how I should continue. All comments help me keep the story and my muses rolling, so please let me know what you think!


	2. I Know The Shame In Your Defeat

**CHAPTER 2 –**

' **I KNOW THE SHAME IN YOUR DEFEAT'**

Disclaimer - I do not own the avengers or any of the characters within it. Unfortunately.

* * *

"A man becomes trustworthy when you trust him."

― Graham Greene, _The Quiet American_

* * *

"I was under the impression that I'd answered all of your questions." Natalia replied smoothly despite the flare of frustration that shot through her. She'd spent hours in this room when she'd first arrived on the base six months ago, answering every single question they threw at her with at least an attempt at truthfulness on her part. She didn't feel like repeating the experience.

"We found some more." Fury answered dryly, taking a seat on the back of desk so that he could face her evenly. Agent Coulson didn't move, apparently preferring his position slightly to the left of her, just on the edge of her vision.

"Of course you did." She said letting her irritation shine through the words before continuing with absolutely no enthusiasm. "What can I do for you now?"

Agent Coulson took a step towards her and she fought the temptation to pull away slightly. The older man had made his opinion of her perfectly clear upon her arrival, and despite the months since that opinion hadn't changed at all. His impassive, but clearly distrusting, expression and tone had never wavered once last few months – and despite Barton's continued assurances that the Handler just needed time, she doubted the archer's faith in the older man.

Agent Coulson held out a file to her and after only a seconds deliberation she took it.

Flipping it open in her lap she skimmed through the first page or so, taking in the forensic photographs of a bombsite and the information attached to them, becoming steadily more confused as the two men before her remained silent.

"This happened four days ago." She said finally, looking up from the file at both sets of prying eyes.

"Yes it did." Agent Coulson confirmed. She waited for some kind of an explanation, but none followed.

She flipped the file closed with a flourished and sighed. "I'm not sure whether to be flattered or offended that you think I managed to have something to do with this while on house arrest, but I'm going to have to disappoint you – I don't know anything about it." She said with, for the first time in quite a while, absolute honesty.

"We're not suggesting that you did." Agent Coulson said, having returned to his position just to her left, on the skirts of her vision, as if he knew just how much it frustrated her to know he was there but not be able to see him fully.

"Then why am I here?" She demanded, probably a little more forcefully than necessary, her tension and unease escaping as frustration.

"Look closer." Agent Coulson said coolly, remaining at her side as she reopened the file grudgingly and read through it more thoroughly. "See anything familiar?" He asked.

It took a couple of minutes – a couple more than usual due to her unease – but eventually she found why she was here.

"The explosive." She said, re-reading the section on the device but already sure that she was starting to catch on.

Fury nodded from his position on the desk. "As you were so forthcoming in our previous conversation I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the situation." He said, eyeing her seriously with his one good eye. "If this is a link to our very special brief-case-" Natalia couldn't help but notice the smallest of frowns creep onto Agent Coulson's face, as well as a slight furrow of his forehead. So Director Fury had not been forthcoming with the information she shared – interesting. "-and our friends Germany we need to get on it now, we need names and associates as well as-" Fury continued, oblivious of – or more likely ignoring – her clear distraction.

At least until she cut him off.

"It's not." She said evenly.

Natalia had guessed already that he was not the type who was used to being cut off mid-sentence, and she couldn't deny that she had been waiting for an opportunity to do so – to gauge his reaction.

Surprisingly, he did nothing.

Raising the brow above his good eye he levelled a stare at her before speaking. "What?" He asked.

"This has nothing to do with Germany or the contents of that case." She said, nodding towards the file in her lap and watching from the corner of her eye as Agent Coulson's frown deepened at her reference of the briefcase.

Definitely out of the loop – and not happy about it.

"But this is the same bomb?" Fury argued, jabbing a figure at the file.

"Yes, it is. But _our friends_ didn't detonate it." Natalia corrected with a small shrug. "I doubt they even detonated the first." She added as an afterthought.

She could see that her flippancy was quickly frustrating both men as they exchanged a irritated glance.

"Explain." Fury demanded.

"The explosive that took out the Consulate in Berlin had nothing to do with the group you encountered. It wasn't set, or even likely approved, by them." She clarified. "In case you're absolute lack of intel on them didn't give it away – they aren't that bold. They don't make noise or mess, and detonating a bomb in a foreign Consulate makes a lot of both."

Fury's frustration was growing by the minute. "Then who the hell-"

"-Yozhikov."

Natalia couldn't help herself. She turned to face him fully as he stared down at her.

She nodded slowly, never looking away from his stony expression despite the agitation it triggered within her. Barton had told her when she first came in that Phil Coulson was someone you wanted on your side here, and she believed him. Despite the kindness she had seen in the Handler's eyes as he interacted with the archer, she could make easily make out the hardness in them as well.

Could see the part of him that would have her executed without a second thought if he thought it would protect Barton and the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. Not to say that Fury wouldn't do the same, she had no doubt he would, but Fury saw value in her. The information and edge she could provide him were apparently worth the risk or she wouldn't be here.

To Phil Coulson, however, she suspected there was no information on earth worth the risk that she presented.

"He was assigned by them to transport and protect the case from interested, and particularly determined, parties." She nodded, confirming his hunch.

"You." Agent Coulson surmised cuttingly.

She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders but didn't answer. There was no need.

"So Yozhikov must have brought it through his own connections." Agent Coulson said and she nodded once more, turning back to face Fury as she waited to be dismissed.

Agent Coulson moved to the Director as he spoke again. "Probably someone he knew through his bio-chemical reputation. My analyst says the explosives are top grade and brilliant. It'd have to be built by someone with a pretty intensive chemical knowledge." Fury rose from the desk as he nodded. Agent Coulson continued. "What do you want me to do sir? Should I hand it over to Homeland?"

"No, keep it on the books for now." Fury said, leaning over his desk to press on the intercom. "Hill," He called and less that a minute later the tall Agent had swept into the room. "Escort Miss Romanov back to training." Fury ordered with a wave in Natalia's direction.

"Yes sir." Hill nodded and Natalia, knowing they were done, stood and followed the Agent towards the office door without another word.

"Have your analyst see what else he can dig up and we'll go from there. I'd like a name for whoever's making them sooner rather than later." Natalia heard Fury say over her shoulder as she neared the door. "This guy's blown up tow buildings already so clearly he likes a good bang. Have your analyst go over the two sites again for links-"

She stopped suddenly at the words, but didn't turn.

"There won't be any." Natalia said over her shoulder, cutting Fury off for a second time. "I told you, there not connected. The engineer is a private seller that works on commission only." She started towards the door again, passing Agent Hill who had now stopped to glance at the two men behind them. "And he's blown up a hell of a lot more than a Consulate and a middle-school teacher." She added before stepping through the door and away from any more questions.

She paused in the hall, waiting as Hill caught up with her, and managed to catch their last few words before she was marched back to the practice field.

"Keep digging."

"Will do sir."

* * *

"Nolan." Phil called as he stepped out into the main hall of the base, where he had told the younger man to meet him after his meeting.

"Yes sir." Nolan jumped up immediately at the sound of his name, rushing over to Phil through the masses of other agents in the hall, dozens of files of research on their bomb clutched in his arms.

Out of the corner of his eye Phil could see Hill leading Romanov through the double doors at the end of the hall, out to the training fields. As if sensing his gaze, as she so often did, her eyes flicked towards him and met his stare evenly for a moment before she disappeared completely through the doorway.

 _He's blown up a hell of a lot more than a Consulate and a middle-school teacher._

Her words rang through his head again, and despite what he thought of her – how much he despised the risk she presented – he believed every word.

"How thorough was your search through the FBI case files?" Phil asked when Nolan finally reached his side, still staring at the door through which Romanov had just vanished.

"Not very sir." Nolan admitted. "It was difficult to get to ones I needed undetected." He said honestly, and Phil was glad. This would go much faster if Nolan was straight with him. It was a refreshing change from most juniors who were to busy trying to impress to worry about honesty.

"Go through again, completely this time. It doesn't matter who sees you, I'll have them notified you're searching under my orders." Phil ordered, tearing his eyes away from the door and turning to the analyst.

"Yes sir," Nolan nodded at once before pausing briefly. "Can I ask why you're so sure they're others sir?" He asked tentatively.

"A hunch." Phil admitted. It was true. They had no real reason to believe Romanov's flippant remark. The whole situation had his stomach in a knot. "Once your done start on the CIA." Phil went on, starting towards the doors that would lead him down to the records building, Nolan on his heels. "I have a feeling we're going to find more than we want to."

The two searched for hours, through both paper and digital files, until the sun had both set and risen again. By the end they were exhausted but, as Phil has dreaded, not even close to empty handed.

Fourteen.

They had found fourteen separate cases involving bombs that matched Nolan's timeline of the chemical degeneration in the Berlin explosion, and they had only gone back five years. If this _engineer_ had been around for much longer Phil didn't even want to think about how many open cases could be linked to him.

How many deaths.

The idea left Phil infuriated.

He threw down the file he was reading – an explosion that killed twenty-six people just north of London three years ago – with a huff of frustration.

"How could we have missed this for so long?" Phil sighed, rubbing his hands over his eyes in vein effort to wake himself up.

"Forensic science is fighting a loosing game. As soon as we find a new way to track crimes, criminals find another way to commit them." Nolan replied from across the desk that separated them, his eyes never leaving the computer he was typing on furiously. They had been holed up in the records room for almost twelve hours now, searching though every open bombing case they could get their hands on. "Though I will admit, I've never seen anything like this." Nolan added, his fingers slowly slightly on the keys in front of him as he threw a pained look at the files surrounding them.

"Neither have I. And that's saying something." Phil said, resting his elbows against the desk between himself and the analyst, rubbing his temples as the beginnings of a migraine set in. "It doesn't help that none of the occurrences seem to be linked either. Hell, some of them don't even have a logical explanation." He grumbled, his frustration mounting by the minute. "A political bombing in Turkey I get, but a middle school teacher in Houston-" His head snapped up as a new approach sprung to mind. "Was there anything nearby the scene? Within a few square blocks?" He asked quickly, mind reeling. Perhaps the bombing wasn't meant for the teacher at all? Perhaps he just got in the way?

Or was the bomber himself?

Nolan typed away quickly for another minute before answering. "Within a ten block radius on the day of the explosion there was a College rally, a Political hearing, an APG conference-"

Phil cut him off sharply. "Who was at the Political hearing?" He asked.

"Senator Brandt." Nolan answered immediately before typing for another few seconds and continuing. "But it was seven blocks away and the middle school teacher didn't have any political ties." The analyst sighed.

Phil sighed with him. "Maybe not then." He said, slouching back into his seat.

"Maybe one of his students had grudge?" Nolan shrugged over the top of his computer screen.

"That was hardly a pipe bomb a kid could find on Google. Where would a student get a bomb like that?" Phil asked and Nolan shrugged again, clearly at a loss, before turning back to his computer and continuing to type. Phil sighed again, checked his watch, and then let his eyes wander back to the file he had been studying. "Where do any of them get one?" He asked, throwing another glance at the files surrounding them – each with no discernable connection to any other.

After a moment Phil straightened back up in his seat and reached for the half-read file in front of him, steeling himself for a couple more hours of research at least.

He paused, with his fingers outstretched for the file, when Nolan's fingers paused altogether on the keyboard before him.

"I think I found another one." The young analyst said forlornly. "Eleven dead in some high society hotel."

"Where?" Phil asked, leaning over the desk to get a better look of the screen that Nolan was holding out to him.

"Québec, July of '04." Nolan said.

Phil froze, half leant over the table, as he stared at Nolan and the pieces slowly fell together.

"July _12_ , 2004?" Phil asked, eerily calm as rage began to seep through him.

Nolan glanced down at the screen for a second before his eyes snapped back to Phil's. "Yeah." He said slowly, completely taken aback.

"In Quebec City, at the Auberge Saint-Antoine Hotel." Phil hissed through his teeth

If possible Nolan's eyes widened even further as Phil spoke.

"How did you know that?" The analyst asked, and Phil's fists clenched at his sides in fury as he rose from his chair suddenly.

"Keep looking." Phil barked harshly, pointedly avoiding the question, as he grabbed his gun and phone that he had left on the desk earlier and stormed towards the door.

"And what are you going to do sir?" Nolan asked from the desk, shock still clear in every inch of his stunned expression.

"Get some goddamn answers."

* * *

Pain was the first thing Clint became aware of.

Pain and pressure.

His chest felt as if a concrete block was crushing it, but as the stars in his vision cleared, and he became more aware, he realized that it was something small and pointed instead. It was pressed into his sternum and severely restricting his very vital need to breathe, and the integrity of his ribs – which were bending at a very unpleasant angle.

"Okay I give." Clint coughed, slapping the knee that was currently cutting of his oxygen supply. "I give! I give!" He spluttered again, and the weight on his chest rolled off.

He bounced instantly to his feet with a deep breath, filling his lungs in an attempt to get rid of the burn in his chest. Shaking his arms to loosen up his muscles he wandered back into the centre of the sparing mat, unable to hold back a grin.

Romanov stood in the centre of the mat, hands clasped behind her back and apparently quite at ease despite that they had been sparing for over an hour now. The woman didn't even sweat – it was starting to freak Clint out.

Or annoy the Christ out of him.

The woman never twitched or sighed unless it was absolutely necessary, and it was getting on his nerves. She just stood there, in the middle of the mat, and beat the living shit out of him for three hours a day. Every day.

She never spoke more than a few words. Never moved any more than was necessary to bring him to the mat – and as much as it pained him to admit, it didn't take much for her.

So Clint talked. Talked more than he had in most of his life really. He wasn't a naturally chatty person, and although he talked a lot with Phil their relationship consisted a lot Phil talking _at_ him – and therefore taking a lot of the conversation pressure off Clint. With Romanov though all he could do was talk, and usually he got no response other than a few words or a nod, but every once in a while he got something more, a half grin or a chuckle.

And bit-by-bit he learned a little more about Natalia Romanova.

"Look, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but _jesus_ you're heavy." He chuckled, running a hand over his tight ribs – damn he hoped nothing was cracked.

This time.

"Or maybe it was just the knee digging into my sternum." He added when she remained silent in the centre of the mat. He danced around the outside of the mat for a couple of seconds. Summoning what little energy he had left. "Come on, again!" He said, dancing around her, ready for another round.

A solitary eyebrow rose. "Do you like being beaten up?" Romanov asked impassively.

"No." He said, slowing a little but not stopping his movements around the mat. He knew from personal experience that just because they were talking doesn't mean she wouldn't hit him. "I like a challenge." He justified.

"How is it a challenge if you know you're going to loose?" She asked, watching him like a hawk as he circled her.

"Okay, first. Ouch. Burn." He laughed before answering. "And it's a challenge _because_ I loose – because it's not easy. It's a challenge because everyday I learn a little more, move a little faster and hit a little harder." He said, dancing his way around her while her eyes followed his every step. "Because one day I won't loose." He grinned.

Her head tilted just slightly.

"Not today."

He knew even before she spoke that he'd accidently danced a little too close to the centre of the mat – and into her reach.

He was on his back, groaning, within seconds.

"Nope. Definitely not today." He chuckled, heaving himself to his feet for the twentieth time that hour. "God, I think you sprained something. Or everything." He said, stretching painfully. "That was sly though, I didn't see that coming. I-"

"Romanov!"

Phil's voice echoed through the deserted gym like a rocket launcher and both spies fell silent.

"What did you _do_?" Clint hissed at her.

"Nothing." She hissed back as the door to the gym flew open and an enraged Phil Coulson burst through.

"ROMANOV!" He roared, marching towards them with his fists clenched so tightly that Clint worried they might spontaneous combust.

"I know that tone!" Clint hissed, sidestepping slightly so that Romanov stood behind him as Phil approached. "You did something." He accused.

"I didn-"

"Hi Phil!" Clint beamed at his handler as Phil reached the sparing-mat. "Wha-"

"You and I are going to have a _very_ serious conversation," Phil spat at Romanov, completely ignoring Clint as he reached them, coming to a halt only a few feet in front of her. "And I swear to god if you lie to me again I will shoot you _right here in this ring_."

"Okay!" Clint said loudly, pushing between the two. "Okay, tension is a bit high but lets no-"

"I _haven't_ lied to you." Romanov spat at Phil.

"Bullshit!" Phil yelled, and Clint recoiled a little. He couldn't remember the last time his handler had yelled. He'd forgotten how intimidating the older man could be. "Quebec, July 12th 2004." Phil went on, staring at Romanov murderously.

The redhead's jaw tightened. "I have already told you that I was there-" She said though her teeth, clearly attempting to hang onto her temper.

"You did not tell us that the explosion in the hotel was caused by one of the bombs that we are looking for." Phil yelled back – his temper so far gone that Clint doubted it was still on the east coast.

"When we had the conversation _you weren't looking for that particular bomb_." Romanov growled, and Clint took a step back towards Phil – suddenly much more intimidated by the furious, sociopathic, murderer than his friend.

"You didn't think to mention it when _we were_." Phil yelled, clearly not as concerned about angering the fiery assassin. Or far to enraged to notice that he wasriling up a world-class killer.

"To be honest you don't seem to put much stock in what I have to say-" Romanov spat at him.

"I don't trust you – and that extends to what you have to say!" Phil answered honestly, jabbing an accusing finger at Romanov. "But that does not mean that you don't have to say it! You withheld-"

"Maybe I was just sick of the attitude every time I spoke-" Romanov spat venomously. Her eyes sparking as she finally lost her patience. She took a solitary step forward – barely an inch closer – but unlike all of her movements in the past few months this step was not calculated or smooth. It was a blur of fury.

She was about to snap. And Clint didn't want to think about what might happen to Phil if she did.

" _OKAY_!" Clint yelled, forcibly wedging himself further between the two. "I think we all just need to take a little step back." He placed a hand flat against Phil's chest and shoved the handler back a few steps, hoping a little distance might help the situation. He raised his other hand to do the same to Romanov, but thought better of it when he caught sight of her expression, taking a step back himself instead. "Let's talk about this a little more rationally." He suggested, staring the both of them down now that they were a safe distance apart. Clint turned to Phil first, experience telling him that his handler would be easier to get answers out of than the currently ill-tempered assassin. "What's going on?"

Phil's answer was instant.

And infuriating.

"That's classified."

It was Clint's turn to hiss in frustration. "Really Phil." He asked, exasperatedly. "I'm trying to be the adult here while you two are _acting like children_." He spat at them both. "What the hell is going on?"

Phil sighed angrily, but didn't withhold despite how much he clearly wanted to keep Clint out of the loop. "The bombing in Houston, we've linked it to fifteen other bombings in the last decade – and she's been present at two of them." Phil jab a finger at the still fuming Romanov.

Clint turned his head to face her. "Is that true?" He asked her seriously – praying silently for an answer.

He wasn't called 'Hawkeye' for nothing, it hadn't escaped his notice that the assassin's eyes had never left Phil since the moment he entered the room. She had focused on him as the immediate threat – and despite that the thought of Phil as a threat was laughable to Clint, he understood why.

The image of Phil ordering her to be shot in the street hadn't been easy to get out of his head.

At first her eyes didn't move. They remained fixed on Phil as if he would lunge for her at any moment, her body more coiled than it had been during any of their sparing sessions.

"No." She answered evenly – her temper carefully under control.

"No?" Clint questioned.

"No." She repeated, before falling silent.

A moment later the incredible happened. It looked almost painful for her, but her eyes flickered from Phil's angry form to Clint. And remained there.

To most it wasn't much, but Clint understood. To a woman like Romanov removing her eyes from something she perceived a threat, was a sign of trust.

And it was the first that Clint had seen since she followed him to S.H.I.E.L.D.

He was just about ready to cry with relief.

"I've been at four." She corrected coolly. "They're very popular in eastern Europe." She explained with a humourless sneer that didn't reach her eyes.

"Who's the engineer?" Phil cut in from behind Clint and Romanov's eyes snapped straight back to the Handler.

"I don't know." She said slowly and with no small amount of sass. Her temper was clearly still a little shaky.

"You've been at _four_ of his attacks and you know nothing?" Phil asked, incredulous.

"The engineer is a private seller – there is nothing to know." Romanov answered, her voice returning to its normal, aloof state.

Clint – seeing the fire behind Phil's eyes sparking again – stepped in. "You must know something?" He asked Romanov.

She said nothing.

Phil scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest and clenching his fists in annoyance. "This is useless."

"Phil-" Clint began, only to be cut off by Romanov.

"I know how to buy one."

That got their attention.

Both Clint and Phil stared at her in silence for moment, jaws slack and all anger forgotten.

"What?" Clint gaped.  
"I don't know who the engineer is." She explained. "But I know how to buy one of his bombs. That's all I know."

There was a brief pause as both Clint and Phil took that in.

"That we can use." Clint said looking between them both.

Once again Phil's answer was immediate.

And just as infuriating.

"No."

"Can I talk to you – privately?" Clint snapped. "Give us a minute." He said over his shoulder to Romanov as he grabbed a fist full of Phil's shirt and practically yanked him from the sparing mat.

"The answer is no-"

" _Just_ listen." Clint hissed as they reached the door to the gym and left even Romanov's impressive hearing range. "You keep telling me how much danger I've put myself in, how many eyes are watch me right now – watching both of us." He nodded towards where Romanov stood in the centre of the sparing mat, watching them both. "This is our chance Phil. To show those eyes that she belongs here, that we both do." Clint said earnestly. "Let us catch this guy. Let us show what we can do if they let us. She wants to be here. Let me prove it to you."

"I don't know-" Phil began, but Clint could see the indecision in his eyes. Phil could clearly see the merit in the idea, he just didn't want to admit it.

"Remember when I came to S.H.I.E.L.D, I was a snotty eighteen year old kid with more trust problems than an abandoned dog." Clint cut him off mid-sentence. "And you told me that when it comes to trust, sometimes you have a take a leap of faith. That you won't ever know if someone's worthy of your trust until you give it to them." He said, watching as Phil's expression became more conflicted. "Please Phil, take a leap of faith." He implored, letting his desperation leak through.

The silence that followed was deafening.

"Fine." Phil grumbled and Clint couldn't help the grin that broke out. "How do you want to do this?" Phil asked, clearly unhappy but surrendering for now.

" _Yes_!" Clint yelled, throwing his hands in the air and dancing back into the middle of the sparing ring where Romanov waited while Phil followed him grumpily. "Probation's over! We're back in the game!" He yelled, dancing rings around her again with a more energy than he'd had in months.

"What?" Romanov asked, watching Clint as if he'd grown a second head.  
"We're going to buy a bomb." Clint clarified, grinning like an idiot.

Romanov raised an eyebrow at the statement but didn't comment. Instead she threw a questioning glance at Phil who gave one of his infamous, disapproving shrugs.

"Okay." She agreed easily, turning back to Clint.

"Okay!" Clint repeated with a clap of excitement, grinning madly at both of them. "So, where are we headed?"

"Georgia." Romanov answered shortly.

"Nice." Clint said, nodding. "I haven't been to Atlanta in years."

"Not that Georgia."

* * *

I am so sorry this took as long as it did.

Unfortunately life and work have not been conducive to writing! But here we are the second chapter over and done with. It was harder to write than I imagine, and still didn't come out how I wanted for some reason? But I've played with it enough! It's time I surrender it to you!

From here things get really exciting….

Let me know what you thought. I'm setting up the relationships so that explosions and mayhem can follow.


	3. And I'll Find Strength In Pain

' **AND I'LL FIND STRENGTH IN PAIN'**

Disclaimer - I do not own the avengers or any of the characters within it. Unfortunately.

My sincerest apologies for any spelling or grammar errors, I wrote this on my own and don't have a beta so mistakes are inevitable. Feel free to pull me up on them in reviews!

I realized that I didn't thank the people who reviewed the first chapter in the last chapter and I now need to correct this _heinous_ injustice! You are beautiful, amazing people who fill my heart with joy! So a HUGE thank-you to ' **AustralianRanger012** ', ' **Death is inevitable** ', ' **Buckitty** ', ' **EternalFire214** ' and the two ' **Guests** ' who reviewed the first two chapters – you keep me inspired!

* * *

"Sometimes the hardest part of the journey is believing you're worthy of the trip."

\- Glenn Beck, _The Christmas Sweater_

* * *

It was well into the early hours of the morning by the time Clint, his still brooding Handler and the ever impassive Russian spy made it to their cottage in a small farming town in the west of South Ossetia, Georgia. It had been a long night. They had landed at a covert S.H.I.E.L.D base in the outskirts of Turkey and crossed the border into Georgia from the south. From there it had been a couple hours by car to the small village that Romanov had directed them too.

The cottage, while bland from the outside, was set up just like all other S.H.I.E.L.D acquired safe houses. He could tell this one had been recently acquired as the usually spotless and minimalist style of a safe house hadn't quite been met. There was hand knitted quilts on the small couch and beds as well as the smell of spices that hadn't quite faded.

Definitely a rush job.

"Well, this is cosy." Clint said, dropping his duffle on the wooden floor as he took in the single room cottage and the three tiny beds crammed into the left corner.

"It'll do." Phil said. The older man strode forward into the room without a second look and began unpacking his own duffle – removing various computers and tactical equipment. "We'll make the order in the morning once we're all set up. Clint do you-"

"It'll be better if we do it tonight."

Romanov spoke from the doorway, not bothering to even step inside as she deposited her own back beside the door frame and looked up to meet both Clint and Phil's questioning stares.

"Why?" Phil asked after a moment, his voice mostly curious with only hints of distain.

It was an improvement.

"Because it's not he kind of order you place in a P.O box." Romanov answered in her typical non-informative way.

"What then?" Clint asked, leaning back casually on one of the small kitchen benches beside the table where Phil had begun unpacking. "Mail-drop? A locker at some seedy bus station?" He suggested. "Carrier Pigeons?"

"Not exactly."

"This is definitely not how I imagined this going."

Clint had been straddling a tree for almost an hour now, watching, and was beginning to have some serious chaffing in places where people shouldn't chaff. He had already set up several cameras in the trees and bushes surrounding the drop site and was now relegated to watch as Romanov made the drop alone.

Well, dig, more accurately.

Romanov had been digging in the centre of a crossing between two dirt roads for nearly an hour and a half now, and she showed no signs of slowing down any time soon. The roads themselves were completely deserted, not a single soul had past them by in the time they had both arrived at the crossroads.

"I thought it'd be more of a clandestine meeting of the minds, you know?" Clint went on, speaking into his comm. despite that Romanov didn't answer. "Espressos, code words, and all that." He rambled to pass the time while she continued to dig. " _I'd like to buy a cupcake. Red velvet. Extra icing_." His Russian accent was purposely terrible, but not even that got a rise out of the cool Russian. Instead she dug.

She dug for another fifteen minutes while Clint fell silent and watched for any other movement around the crossroad.

"Well, at least we know one thing about the engineer." Clint sighed, watching Romanov's practised movements through his rifle's scope. "They're a 'blues' fan."

Clint shifted a little on his perch slightly before refocusing, settling in for a long night. Or morning.

He was just about to resume rambling when Romanov's voice echoed over the comms for the first time.

"'Blues'?" She asked softly, keeping her voice low and her slips so still that not even Clint had seen them move through his scope

'Yeah, you know, 'Cross Road Blues' and 'Devil Went Down to Georgia'." He said in a shabby Southern accent. "Music." He clarified when she said nothing.

She didn't reply.

She just dug.

"Though someone should probably tell our engineer that they meant the Georgia next to Tennessee, not Russia-"

The dull sound of a shovelhead striking metal cut him off.

As Clint watched Romanov threw away the shovel and began smoothing the dirt with her hands, unearthing a dark metal box within the ground. Once she had completely cleared it she fiddled with the larch for a moment before swinging open the lid.

"What now?" Clint asked.

"We fill it." She said as she hoist herself out of the hole and snatched up the bag she had brought with them. She then emptied the three and a half million dollars in unmarked, non-consecutive, American bills into the box and then threw in an envelope of her instructions for the bomb and its delivery. They had pre-arranged a safe house in Dublin for the bomb to be sent to, and had agents already set up and waiting – though hopefully they wouldn't be needed.

They planed to follow the money instead.

With Clint up in her perch watching over the crossroads and several cameras circling the centre of the two roads they planed to catch the engineer as he came to check for an order, no matter how long it took.

"Now we wait." Clint said, as Romanov took up the shovel once more and began to fill in the large hole.

She said nothing.

So they waited.

Clint took to sitting in his perch over looking the crossroads for ten hours a day while Phil sat by his computer watching the surveillance feed at night.

And Romanov stayed within the safe house, to valuable to be sent home and not trustworthy enough to help, under Phil's watchful eye for every second. Clint had half expected the older man to have her on the first jet back to New York as soon as she made the drop, but he had surprised him. Phil had agreed – without argument – that she was more valuable here, despite the risk she presented.

So they waited.

And watched.

Then waited some more.

For eight whole days after the drop Clint watched from his treetop, Phil kept a keen eye on the camera feeds and Romanov sat completely still in the chair across from Phil in the tiny safe house.

"Report Hawkeye," Phil sighed over the comms just as Clint's watch hit nine o'clock. Just like he had asked the hour before, and the hour before that.

"There's a pidgeon pecking at the ground about three feet away from the drop site." Clint replied, watching the bird as it meandered through the crossroad – searching for food. "Maybe that's the courier?" He suggested. "Instead of a carrier pidgeon, he's a collection pidgeon. He's here to dig up the money and deliver it. Pretty genius. Engineer never has to show his face _and_ he's designed himself an all new Postal system that doesn't demand wages-"

"Somehow I doubt it." Phil's voice was a welcome reprieve from the silence all around Clint for the last couple of hours.

Their check-ins were usually short and not very sweet so that Clint's position remained un-noticed. Not that anyone had actually come close enough to the crossroad to notice him. There was a bar about a five-minute walk down one of the intersecting roads, and not a single soul had journeyed past it since they had arrived. Clint couldn't decide if the road was just naturally derelict or the locals knew to avoid it.

Either way, it had made surveillance pretty damn dull.

"I don't know," Clint disagreed lightly. "I really think you're underestimating the intelligence of pidgeons. They're feisty, clever, little pricks-"

Clint never got to fully express his completely justified opinion of pidgeons. Phil cut him off just as he started with only a few words.

Words that made him a hell of a lot more angry than pidgeons.

"The package was just delivered."

* * *

Natalia could hear the archer's fury from all the way across the desk as he yelled into Agent Coulson's earpiece.

" _What_?"

"The bomb was delivered just a few minutes ago to the safe house we set up." The older Agent scowled. Natalia watched as he read through the message on his S.H.I.E.L.D issue phone more thoroughly. "It was delivered by courier. They have him now for questioning, but my gut tells me that he's not going to have a clue what he just delivered."

" _Damn it_!" Barton yelled into the earpiece, loud enough that Agent Coulson grimaced a little as it echoed across the comm. "How the _hell_ can the order have been delivered if the engineer hasn't even come to collect the damn thing?!"

"They must-" Agent Coulson began, strained, as he fought to find a reasonable explanation. "They could have-" He broke off with a sigh, shoving his computer away from him for the first time in days and scrubbing his hands across his eyes. "We must have missed something. Some camera or person in the area."

" _Bullshit_!" Barton's voice crackled loudly over the comm again. "We checked the entire area for cameras, I've been over it five times looking for a signal, and not one damn person has come within a hundred yards of the crossroads."

"Well we clearly missed something." Phil argued. "Because the bomb – the exact one we ordered – is in Dublin. And the Engineer is in the wind."

Barton cursed over the comm. Vehemently.

"You might as well come back Hawkeye, we can re-evaluate from here." Agent Coulson ordered, leaning back in his chair with obvious resignation.

Barton's cursing echoed through the small room.

"How the _hell_ did they get around us?" Barton all but roared as he burst back into the safe-house forty minutes later. The room had been completely silent since he and Agent Coulson last spoke – neither she nor the older handler feeling particularly chatty. Not that the two of them had spoken during the days before when Barton had been out on surveillance and they had been stuck together in the one room safe house, and Natalia preferred it that way. She was so used to silence that it had become comforting for her.

And to be quite honest, neither of them had had anything nice to say about the other.

"I don't know." Agent Coulson said, staring at old footage of the crossroad on his laptop as if someone might magically appear where he or she hadn't before. He'd started searching nearly half an hour ago and he didn't look like he'd be stopping anytime soon.

"Because it's not possible!" Barton argued, storming over to his cot and throwing down his bow in frustration. "We had every inch of that crossroad covered!"

"I know." Agent Coulson sighed.

"Then how is this possible?" Barton asked. When Agent Coulson offered no response Barton rounded on her. "How did he know?"

"I don't know." Natalia answered truthfully. "I only know how to place the order – not how he collects it."

" _But_?" Barton added, staring at her intently. Her eyebrow rose at his tone, not quite sure what he was insinuating. "I'm learning that there's always a ' _but_ ' with you." He clarified.

When she didn't answer for several seconds Agent Coulson's eyes shot up from the screen of his laptop and he stared at her too.

She sighed, shooting a look between the both of them, before shrugging. "It didn't seem a little…easy?" She suggested – finally voicing the thought that had been nagging her since they arrived.

"I've been sitting up in that tree for ten hours a day, for eight days – my crotch disagrees with you." Barton said, collapsing into one of the empty chairs at the table between her and Agent Coulson.

"Whoever this is built a bomb so complicated that any evidence it leaves behind becomes more untraceable with every hour." Natalia reasoned. "The idea that they'd let themselves be out in the open long enough to dig up the money was just…unlikely."

"I know." Barton agreed, unexpectedly, running his fingers through his hair and slouching down low in his seat. "But I couldn't think of anything else. Still can't." He went on. "No one should have been able to get past us. Not in that space – not in that kind of open area."

"Well they did." Agent Coulson said, shutting his laptop and beginning to pack it away forlornly. "And now we're done here."

" _What_!?" Barton shouted as he sat back up straight in his seat, staring at his handler in astonishment. "No. Phil-You can't shut us down! Not yet! We could still find something-"

"There is nothing left to find Clint." Agent Coulson spoke over him. "The order was placed and delivered – we missed him."

"We missed something," Barton allowed. "But that doesn't mean we can't still find something!" He argued. "If nothing else we'll be able to get sights on another customer. We know the drop site now, we cant just wait them out-"

"For how long?" Phil asked, shaking his head as he spoke. "It was months between bombings – we don't have that kind of time to just wait around Clint."

"Phil-" Barton began again only to be cut off.

"No Clint!" Agent Coulson snapped, yanking his files off the table and packing them away too. "Whatever was here, we missed it. The engineer is gone, and we're done."

Barton's jaw clenched dangerously, the tension in his body rising to a point that even Natalia was leaning away slightly.

But he didn't snap.

Instead he rose to his feet fluidly and stormed out of the safe house without another word– slamming the small wooden door with enough force that the frame itself cracked in several places.

Agent Coulson was faring not much better.

While the older man was clearly doing a better job of holding onto his temper Natalia could easily make see the excess force in his movement – the slight shake of his hands.

It was the shake that truly gave him away though.

The tremble in his hands that was too soft for rage – too uncontrollable for frustration.

It was fear.

"This isn't good for him, is it?" Natalia asked, the words escaping her lips before she had really thought them through. Her mind had drifted back to the over-heard conversation that Barton had had with Agent Coulson in the gym before they left.

" _You keep telling me how much danger I've put myself in, how many eyes are watch me right now…"_

Barton's word echoed through her skull as the shake in Agent Coulson's hands grew. This kind of failure after being released from probation early would not look good – would not help his already shaky standing with S.H.I.E.L.D.

And judging by Agent Coulson's now clenched fists, he knew this too.

"This isn't good for either of you."

Agent Coulson was still packing the last of his and Barton's things when Barton himself walked back into the safe house, over an hour later. He was still angry, Natalia could see that in his tense shoulders and jaw, but his frustration now seemed to fuel a new round of determination.

'When's the evac coming?" He asked Agent Coulson, who had looked up at his arrival but said nothing.

"Not till morning." The Handler replied hesitantly, watching as Barton strode across the room and seized his bow – strapping on his quiver and tightening the holders holding his two desert eagle handguns.

"Good." Barton said, before turning to Natalia. "Grab a shovel."

He started towards the door but Agent Coulson stepped forward and stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. To her surprise Barton paused despite that the hand was anything but restraining.

"Clint, what are you doing?" Agent Coulson asked with something in his voice that Natalia hadn't heard a lot in her lifetime. Concern. Affection. Agent Coulson genuinely wanted to know what was on Barton's mind. Wanted to connect. "What are you thinking?"

More than once since arriving at S.H.I.E.L.D Natalia had found herself pondering the relationship between the two, and despite that months had past she still couldn't quite understand it.

She could tell it was strong. Barton depended on the older man more than he had probably depended on anyone in his life, and vice versa, but that wasn't uncommon. Comrades often learned to depend on only each other.

No. It was the genuine affection in their relationship that she didn't understand. The trust that seemed unshakable. Agent Coulson cared about him more than any Handler she had ever seen. More than she had thought any Handler should.

Agent Coulson treated him like a brother - almost a son.

Like family.

And that was something that she had never understood.

"I'm thinking that I'm going to go and dig up that box and see what's inside." Barton answered sharply.

Agent Coulson's hand falling from his shoulder seemed to bring Barton back to himself.

He took a breath and the tension seeped from him. "I have to know Phil," He said, earnestly. "There is no way that they could have gotten past us, I have to know if it's empty."

Agent Coulson stared at him for a moment. He must have seen something on the younger agent's face as a moment later he nodded and spoke. "Okay." He said. "I'll come with you-"

"No." Barton said. "You'll be able to watch our six better from the cameras – we don't know what's out there, and the night vision might catch something we don't."

"I'd feel better about you putting yourself out in the open if I was there to actually cover your six." Agent Coulson argued with the exasperation of a man who had had the same argument multiple times.

And lost multiple times.

"Romanov will cover me," Barton said, turning to her expectantly. "Wont you?" He asked with a grin that only frustrated his Handler more.

She said nothing for a moment, watching the interaction between the two, before answering. "Sure." She said evenly.

"Oh yes," Agent Coulson sighed heavily, sarcasm dripping from the words. He dropped heavily into his seat across from her at the table and pulling out his laptop from the bag he had left there. "That puts me right at ease."

"Great." Barton said, nodding at them both. "It's settled." He started back towards the door, pausing to look over his shoulder at her before he disappeared outside. "Don't forget a shovel."

At a brisk jog the two of them reached the crossroad in just under forty-five minutes. It was close to midnight so they had no need to hide as they began to dig in the centre of the crossroad – darkness hid them from any prying eyes.

The two of them made quick work of the hole, and within twenty minutes Natalia's shovel struck metal.

Barton threw away his own shovel and began clearing the remaining dirt with his hands, finding the outline of the metal box and uncovering the clasp.

"Let's get this over with." He muttered before yanking the lid off the box with his considerable strength. They both leant in close to see what was inside.

It was empty.

" _Damn it_!" Barton yelled, shoving away from the box and rising gracefully to his feet.

"What?" Agent Coulson's voice flooded into her ear through the comm he had thrust upon her on her way out of the safe house. "What did you find?"

"Nothing." Barton spat. Fuming. "It's empty." He started to pace, fists clenched at his side. "How the hell is it empty?!" He demanded of no one in particular – or perhaps himself. Natalia got the impression that he wasn't used to not knowing things, and he didn't enjoy the feeling.

"Whoever the engineer is must have some system." Agent Coulson rationalised. "Some way of getting to the money without coming out in the open."

" _How_!?" Barton insisted. "Seriously how? This road is completely deserted. There is no cover. There is absolutely no way-"

A loud bang cut him off midsentence.

While Barton had been speaking Natalia had examined the inside of the metal box a little more thoroughly. Nothing caught her attention immediately until she noticed the slight grooves around the bottom where the base attached.

Without a second thought she seized her own abandoned shovel and stuck the bottom of the box with enough strength to dent the shovel.

And break the clasp that held the base closed.

The bottom of the box swung open as she watched, and through it she could make out the inside of a large room a few feet beneath the box – at least ten feet beneath the earth. From the small vantage point that the box offered she could make out a table, small lamp and the beginning of a tunnel heading away from the dark room.

"Son of a _bitch_!" Barton, Desert Eagle in hand, had come closer to look inside once he'd determined that they weren't being shot at. He, too, glanced through the box and into the small room beneath with astonishment.

"What's going on?" Agent Coulson's voice echoed over the comm again, his frustration at being unable to help was almost tangible. "Hawkeye report."

"It's double sided." Barton relayed, getting back down on his knees and leaning further into the box to try and get a better view of the room beneath. Natalia moved away to allow him more room, having scouted the buried chamber herself and comfortable that there was no one waiting below to take a shot at them when they looked too closely. "The drop-box." Barton clarified. "There's a room underneath where the engineer can get the money and the order without every coming to the surface."

Natalia had to give Agent Coulson credit. There was no double take, no questions, he merely accepted the change in the scenario and ran with it.

"How does the engineer get in?" Agent Coulson asked without even a pause. "Is there a hatch nearby or something that might indicate an entrance?"

"There's a tunnel leading away from the room." Barton explained, glancing up from the hole in the direction that the tunnel seemed to lead. His eyes settled on something in the distance, narrowing in thought, and Natalia glanced in the same direction.

After searching for a moment she could make out in the darkness what the archer was staring at. It was a bar, maybe a thousand yards away, in the same direction as the small tunnel. It appeared deserted, just as it had during the duration of their surveillance – only a dozen or so patrons had come and gone in the eight days they had watched the crossroad.

Her musings stopped when Barton raised his hand a couple of inches and gave the smallest of waves towards the bar.

Her hand settled on the Beretta at her thigh.

"What do you see?" She and Agent Coulson asked simultaneously.

"The owner." Barton replied, still staring intently at the small building. As Natalia watched she too caught sight of a slight shadow by one of the windows. "The man sees people burying millions of dollars in the road outside his place and never gets curious," Barton added, watching the shadow until it disappeared. "I don't buy it. Something's off."

Barton rose back to his feet and brushed the loose dirt from his cargo pants. "I'm going to go poke it with something." He added before setting off in the direction of the bar. Natalia followed him closely, keeping an eye on the surrounding forest as they came closer and closer to the shabby bar. Barton was right, something was off about all of this and it didn't leave her with a good feeling.

"Go in around the back." Barton told her as they neared the front entrance. "He might try and make a run for it. He's probably never seen an actual customer in his life." Barton grinned as he took started up the steps towards the entrance slowly and she made her way quickly around the side of the bar.

There was a small door on the back wall of the building and she slipped through easily, the old lock practically falling away after a hard shove. She continued on slowly through what appeared to be the small, deserted kitchen area and through a wooden archway on the opposite wall – into the dark bar. She entered the room silently from behind just as Barton let himself in the entrance.

The owner, or at least she assumed he was the owner as he was the only soul in the bar, looked up at Barton from behind the bar. He was an older man, in his fifties at least, but she could make out what remained of muscle. She was willing to bet the he was quite formidable in his day, possibly a soldier or even a rebel, but alcoholism had set in sometime in the last decade. She could easily make out the added weight he carried in his gut, and the slight tremble of his hands.

Though that may have been a reaction to the sight of Barton in his full tactical gear – bow and all – appearing through his front door.

"Whisky. Neat." Barton ordered with a grin, strolling towards the bar with his hands dug deep into his pockets. He was the picture of nonchalance.

The older man paled dramatically as Barton neared him, so caught up in the sight of the strange man that he failed to notice her altogether as she made her way slowly around the bar.

"Ugh," The man stuttered, panic clearly setting in. "N-no English." He said in a heavy Georgian accent.

"Viski. Dznelia." Natalia translated softly, but loudly enough to catch the older man's attention. He blanched visibly at the sight of her leaning against his bar – blocking the back door.

The man nodded slowly before turning and reaching for one of the many dusty bottles behind the bar and filling two glasses.

"Great spot you've got here." Barton said cheerfully, in English despite the man's words, looking about the dingy, dark bar. "Nice mood. Great views." On the last words his voice dropped and his eyes slowly made there way back to the old man as he set the drinks in front of Barton.

Barton's hand moved faster than even Natalia had given him credit for, seizing the wrist of the old man before he could withdraw his arm.

"Nice tattoo." Barton admired coolly. Natalia leaned closer to see the small red shape protruding slightly from the old man's shirt.

A rebel tattoo.

The old man paled even further.

"You can talk to us, or I can call the Georgian Police and you can talk to them." Barton threatened. "And between you and me, I don't think they'll be quite as friendly as we are. Certainly wont leave as good of a tip."

The man's jaw clenched.

Barton's grin grew. "He understood that." The archer said, grinning at her.

"Yes he did." She agreed coolly when the old man's eyes flitted to her.

"I don't know what you're talking about." The old man said, his accent weighing on the words heavily but his English quite good.

"I doubt that." Barton argued. "I also doubt that you've failed to notice the strange people who visit that crossroad on occasion." He added, nodding towards the intersecting roads that were just distinguishable through one of the bar's windows.

The old man said nothing.

"Who comes to collect the orders?" Barton asked slowly, his voice deepening. More threatening. When the old man remained silent Barton began to rise from his seat, towering over the man, while keeping an unbreakable grip on his wrist. "Who comes to collect the orders?" He repeated slowly, focusing his striking blue eyes on the man.

Natalia couldn't blame the old man for answering. She had not forgotten sight of Barton standing in front of her, bow raised, after witnessing the kind of shot he was capable of making – and she doubted she ever would.

"I don't know." The old man said quickly, wrenching his arm away and backing up from the bar. "H-he comes to the bar sometimes." He continued. "He give me money t-to-" He struggled with his words for a moment before glancing at her. "P'otosurat'i." He said to her in Georgian.

"Photograph." Natalia translated.

"A man pays you to take pictures of the people who come to the crossroad?" Barton surmised, never taking his eyes off the old man.

"Yes."

Barton asked something else as Natalia inspected the bar more closely out of habit. It was dingy at best, completely deserted and in severe need of a good clean. A heavy layer of dusk had settled over everything in sight.

Or almost everything.

"Widow." Barton's voice calling her broke through her focus but she didn't turn to face him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him walk towards her with something in his hands. "The man took photos of you burying the order." He said, holding them out for her to see. She didn't bother to look down. "Do you think we're blown?" He asked softly so that the old man could not over hear.

"We are now."

She nodded towards the corner that had caught her attention.

Strung up in the only dust free area of the entire bar was a single far range, digital camera. Expensive.

And recording.

Barton tensed not even a second later as his sharp eyes caught sight of the device.

"Shit-" He never finished. Just as he began to speak Natalia heard the familiar hiss of sound gas escaping and then a soft _click_.

Just like Berlin.

" _Run_!"

Both she and Barton lunged for the window without hesitation, crashing painfully through the glass and sprinting for cover as a second _click_ sounded.

And bar exploded.

* * *

And that's chapter three!

I did promise explosions…

Now things can get interesting!

Do let me know what you thought, I don't know why but these last two chapters have just not come out right… but I'm tired of trying to fix them. Some constructive criticism would not be amiss if you can spare it

I know the relationships are strained at the moment but that is one of the themes of this story. I'm not a fan of timelines moving too quickly – I fully believe that none of the people in this story are quick to trust and therefore that is something that they have to overcome which is what they'll attempt to do in this story.

Fear not! The love will come!

As for why I'm still referring to Natasha as 'Natalia' that will be explained as well. I always imagined her transformation into Natasha – and a S.H.I.E.L.D agent – happened slowly, but it will happen.

Let me know you're thoughts! I'm going to try and have the next chapter up in just over a week (I'm back at work and Uni now so it takes a bit of time, but I'm trying I swear!)


	4. And I Will Change My Ways

**CHAPTER 4 –**

' **AND I WILL CHANGE MY WAYS'**

Disclaimer - I do not own the avengers or any of the characters within it. Unfortunately.

So...hi *awkward cough*

So here is the next chapter..only a year and a half late...

(if you read to the bottom I will try to explain why)

My sincerest apologies for any spelling or grammar errors, I wrote this on my own and don't have a beta so mistakes are inevitable. Feel free to pull me up on them in reviews

* * *

Phil was no stranger to fear.

He had spent his entire adult life surrounded by it, first in the military and then with S.H.E.I.L.D. Even as a child fear had controlled a great deal of his life – as the son of a diplomat his parent's fear of a political attack had kept him almost always surrounded by high security and body-guards.

That hadn't changed once his parents were killed during an attack on a political conference and he had dropped out of Yale to join the military.

He merely transformed from the protectee to the protector.

Fear had never strayed far from him though, as both the targeted son of a diplomat or a soldier. It remained with him, surrounding him like a heavy fog – but never quite managed to touch him.

Since his parents death when he was only twenty Phil found he really didn't fear much at all.

Fear was still all around him in his work – but it could never quite dig its claws into Phil. He was a man with nothing left to loose, and therefore nothing to fear.

Or he had been.

The deafening echo of an explosion over the comms had brought with it a fear that burrowed deep into his chest, clenching around his heard and lungs until he couldn't breathe.

"CLINT!"

He'd covered the distance to the drop site in minutes, hurtling through the countryside in the jeep they had brought with them for the trip from Turkey.

He'd taken each corner wildly, and accelerated far more forcefully than he should have along the dirt roads that led to the drop site, but eventually he made it to the small bar just up from the crossroad.

Or what was left of it.

"CLINT!" He bellowed again, taking in the rubble, dust and _not much else_ as he circled what remained of the bar.

He plundered through the wreckage wildly, tripping over large pieces of debris and cutting his hands as he shoved the rubble aside. He searched desperately for almost fifteen minutes, praying that he'd find nothing.

 _They could have gotten clear_ , his panic argued, _Romanov had screamed for them to run and he'd heard glass shatter before the explosion_. They could have gotten clear.

No matter how many times he thought the words – even said them out loud a couple of times in an attempt to convince himself – he still couldn't silence the more rational voice that echoed through his mind.

 _The blast was too big_ , it murmured over and over as his searching became more frantic. _It was too wide. No one could have been fast enough to escape it completely._

The inner most circle of destruction, right in the centre of the bar, was dust. Nothing else had survived the initial blast. The rest, further away from the detonation site, was a minefield of large debris, half destroyed walls that had been blown free and _dirty blond hair._

"Jesus Christ, Clint!"

He leapt towards what little he could see of the archer. Blond, soot mattered hair stuck out from a pile of rubble and dirt only a few yards from where Phil was searching. He was so covered in dirt, and half buried by debris, that Phil could only see his torso and mattered mop of hair.

' _Clint_!" Phil called again, dropping painfully to his knees beside the kid and trying to ignore the knot that was forming in his stomach when Clint remained motionless.

" _God, please_ ," Phil murmured, pressing shacking fingers against Clint's throat and leaning in close to the kid's lax face. Small puffs of breath hit Phil's check as his fingers finally picked up the steady beats of Clint's pulse, and for the first time since the explosion sounded in his ear Phil took a breath.

He was alive.

Banged up, but alive.

"Clint?" Phil called again, running his hands through the archer's filthy hair to search for any blood or lumps. There was nothing obvious so Phil's hands moved downwards, carefully starting to turn Clint onto his side while cradling the kid's head against his chest to keep him from straining his neck any more than he had too.

The slightest of groans met Phil's ears as he moved Clint towards him. Burns mattered the kid's left shoulder and back so Phil hoisted him closer so that he could lean against his chest, keeping the burns away from the ground. They weren't particularly bad, his tactical gear had protected his back from majority of the explosion, but the skin was raw and burning hot when Phil examined it a little closer.

"Clint?"

The groan grew louder.

"P-Phil?" The word was barely distinguishable between groans but Phil caught it.

"Yeah it's me kid." He said, running a hand over Clint's ribs for any breaks or cracks and coming up empty handed.

Phil didn't know how, but miraculously it seemed more and more like Clint had just escaped a massive explosion with a couple of burns, a knock to the head and a deep cut to the upper flesh of his left leg that Phil could spy through his torn cargo pants. The relief that came with that realization almost made Phil laugh.

Only Clint Barton.

"Can you hear me kid?" Phil asked, leaning down to try and get a glance at the archer's eyes to work out whether he was dealing a concussion or not.

"PHIL?" Phil flinched a little as the kid's shout rang in his ears. "PHIL? W-WHAT'S GOING ON?"

"It's okay – you're okay." Phil said but Clint's confusion didn't go away. Instead he just stared up at Phil through squinty eyes as if he couldn't hear a word he was saying.

Which, Phil realized after another moment, he probably couldn't.

" _You're okay_." Phil signed for Clint to see. " _You were in an explosion, your ears are probably still ringing_."

"MORE LIKE SCREAMING." Clint yelled, as he fought to sit up on his own. Phil helped heave him into an upright position, keeping one hand on the kid's shoulder just in case.

Clint took a good look around him a moment later, taking in the destruction with wide eyes, before all colour started to fade from his skin.

Phil leant forward, ready to catch him if he started to fall, but Clint seized a handful of his shirt and pulled him closer.

" _Where's Romanov_?" He croaked, fear clear in his eyes.

"I don't know." Phil answered honestly. "I've been searching through the rubble-"

"We have to find her." Clint cut him off, his hearing clearly starting to come back, rolling onto his knees in preparation of heaving himself to his feet.

"Whoa," Phil cautioned, pulling Clint back down with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "No. Stay here, you're in no condition to be walking around. I'll find her."

"Phil-"

"I'll find her."

He left Clint half sprawled on the ground and continued on through the wreckage – throwing a glance back at the kid every so often to make sure he was doing as he was told – examining every inch of the site for any sign of the small assassin.

"Romanov?" He called, circling the area nearest to Clint. Likelihood was that she wasn't far away from him when the explosion occurred.

He searched for another couple of minutes – a tight knot forming in his stomach as he finished searching around Clint and started to head further towards the detonation site. If she were much closer to the explosion than Clint she wouldn't have been so lucky.

"Did you find anything?" Clint called.

"Not yet." Phil said, digging through a particularly large piece of debris. "She could be anywhere, this place is – _Romanov_!"

He had moved aside a large piece of wooden panelling, trying to clear the way further towards the detonation area, and underneath it was an unmistakable array of fiery red hair.

"Romanov?" Phil called again, dropping to his knees beside her and brushing her hair away from her face. It clung to her forehead where clumps of blood had set and stained her hair an even brighter shade of scarlet.

He was right. She hadn't been so lucky.

Phil pressed two fingers to the pulse point at her neck, leaning close to listen for any breath sounds, just like he had for Clint.

"Did you find her?" Clint called out again. "Is she okay?"

"She has a pulse, and she's breathing." _A thready pulse_ , Phil corrected silently, _and laboured breathing_ , but he wasn't about to say that to Clint. The kid would drag himself over if he thought he had too, and that wouldn't help anyone right now.

Miraculously it looked like she'd escaped any kind of burns despite the explosion, the large wooden board he'd found her underneath had evidently shielded her from the open flames.

Unfortunately the board had no been so kind to her skull.

Phil parted the crimson locks that stuck to the side of her forehead, inspecting a pretty grisly head wound that was still leaking blood, and ran a hand over her ribs to check for any breaks. A couple gave way slightly under his gentle touch – close to her left lung. That explained the laboured breathing.

He had to get her to a hospital.

Not that Clint was doing much better, he threw a glance back at the kid to find him straining to see Phil over the wreckage. He was too pale, and the fact that he hadn't completely ignored Phil and stumbled over meant that something must _really_ hurt.

Phil turned his attention back to Romanov, as it was she needed more help than Clint if they were all going to make it out of this.

Despite his distrust – and plain dislike at times – he really didn't want her dying on his watch.

He slipped an arm under her small waist, ready to turn her onto her side gently just as he had done for Clint, but when he moved his other arm to steady her ribs as he moved her something hard and strong caught it mid-air.

It was a hand.

Phil glanced back up to Romanov's face to find her eyes open and attempting to focus on him, blinking rapidly as blood from her head wound stuck to her eyelids.

"It's alright." Phil said softly, pulling his wrist from her iron grip gently and holding both hands out for her to see. It seemed the best course of action if he actually wanted to keep them. "It's Coulson." He clarified when her eyes struggled to focus on him and she pulled away from his outstretched hands. "You were in an explosion and you've taken a pretty bad hit to the head."

When she gave no indication that she'd heard or understood him his concern spiked.

"Can you hear me?" He asked slowly, leaning further towards her despite the risk of her lashing out.

Her eyes rolled around them both – taking in the rubble and clouds of smoke that were still blossoming from several fires around them – before settling back on him.

"Barton?" She asked, her rough voice almost painful to listen too. She'd inhaled too much smoke.

"He's okay," Phil assured her, his nerves settling as she became more coherent. "A few minor burns, but nothing too serious." She nodded, but didn't relax. If anything the tension in her small frame was growing by the minute.

Her eyes were flickering towards an open fire a few yards from them and back with increasing frequency and the slightest hint of panic.

"You're in slightly worse shape." Phil went on and her eyes settled back on him warily as he moved towards her. "We need to get you both out of here and back to the base in Turkey." She nodded again, sliding her elbows up so that she could start to heave herself painfully into a sitting position. Phil reached forward to place a steadying hand on her arm but she flinched away roughly, hissing slightly as the sharp movement jarred her broken ribs.

Phil withdrew his hands cautiously but didn't lower them. "It's okay." He found himself saying again. There was a wariness in her eyes that he was more than familiar with now – there was almost always some form of wariness in her eyes when she looked at him – but this time was different. This time he saw the hint of real fear behind the wariness and his heart sank.

She really didn't trust him not to kill her while she couldn't even get up.

"It's okay." He repeated, reaching out again more gently and slipping an arm around her waist – supporting her broken ribs. This time he didn't pull away when she flinched, instead he moved closer to hold her against his side softly, holding the arm closest to him lightly to steady her. "I've got you kid."

And she was. God, she was younger than even Clint, and in that moment as she stared at him with guarded, slightly unfocused eyes and blood dripping from her forehead it was painfully obvious. His initial fear of what might happen to Clint because of her had blinded him slightly, but – although he wasn't about to confess it to Clint quite yet – he was ready to admit that perhaps he had been wrong to be so harsh. That his anger and callousness had done more harm than good.

After all, this was the second time she'd saved Clint's life.

"Alright? Up we go." Phil said, rising with her as she got back to her feet – supporting her weight as she wavered only slightly. "Easy," He cautioned as she started to move forward immediately despite the pained lines in her forehead.

She nodded slightly before pulling away from his grasp. This time he let her go, satisfied that she wasn't going to fall, but kept quite close behind her as they made their way back towards Clint slowly. Just in case. She didn't seem to mind though – only glancing back at him once as they walked.

It was progress.

It was slow going at the start but eventually they made their way back to where Phil had left Clint sitting upright in the rubble, waiting anxiously for them. At the sight of Romanov – with blood still dripping down her forehead and her torso rigidly still – walking only a couple of steps ahead of Phil the kid was on his feet before Phil could say a word.

"Jesus," Clint breathed, limping forward on his injured leg, as they got closer. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." She answered sharply, stopping a few feet from Clint's reach. The kid, despite clearly wanting to close the distance and take a better look at her himself, held his ground – knowing that pushing would get him nowhere quickly.

"Neither of you are fine." Phil said curtly, passing Romanov and reaching out for the kid, looping one of Clint's arms around his shoulders to take some of the weight of the kid's injured leg. "We need to get going. It's not a short drive to Turkey and I'd rather get you two to medical sooner rather than later."

"I'm good Phil." Clint assured, trying to pull away from him, but Phil wasn't having a bar of it.

He was just about ready to throw both of them over his shoulders and march them to the jeep if it meant getting on the road faster.

"Fine." He snapped. "Then get your ass in that jeep. Both of you. I've got to call this in and get a team in to search the tunnel and clean this up. "

"Aye, aye Overwatch." Clint chuckled before beginning to limp towards the jeep parked on the outskirts of the rubble, Romanov not far behind him.

Phil sighed, pulling his phone from his jacket pocket and beginning to dial as he followed his agents. He probably should have called a team in as soon as he heard the explosion, there would be hell to pay if the site fell into the hands of the Georgian government before S.H.E.I.L.D had a chance to look over it properly, but his reasoning skills hadn't been firing on all cylinders. Now that both his agents were in his direct line of sight it was easier to focus on the sudden turn of events and the procedures he had to follow.

He had to get a team in to examine the bar and the tunnel beneath it as quickly as possibly to see if they could salvage anything from the debris. Perhaps this mission had not been as futile as they first thought. If there was something in the tunnel that might lead them –

 _Crack_.

"Ugh, Overwatch." Clint voice echoed in the silence as all three of them froze almost at the edge of the debris, throwing wild glances into the woods around them. "What was that?"

"I don't –" Phil began only to be cut off by another, louder, _crack_.

"It's coming from below us." Romanov said, moving her feet cautiously as she examined the ground more closely.

There was silence for another moment.

 _Crack_.

All the blood drained from Clint face as his head snapped up to meet Phil's wide eyes.

"Oh, crap." The archer muttered.

And then they were falling.

The sensation of clawing his way to consciousness was not a foreign one to Clint. As sad as it sounded, he was actually getting used to waking up with a splitting headache and no fucking clue where he was.

It was probably a sign that he seriously needed to rethink his lifestyle.

"Mmph." Clint groaned, forcing his eyes open and rolling painfully onto his back. Dust was still settling on the concrete around him so Clint knew that he couldn't have been out for long, a couple of minutes at most.

His visioned cleared up after another couple of seconds and Clint heaved himself into a sitting position, taking in his surroundings. Phil was only a couple of feet to Clint's left, already well on his way back to awareness if the groans coming from him were any indication.

"Phil?" Clint called croakily, the dust in his lungs making him sound like a fifty-year old chain smoker.

"Clint?" Phil called back, turning onto his side so that he could face Clint. "You hurt?" Ever the mother-hen.

"I'm good." Clint assured him glancing around them both, taking in the whole in the ground above them. "What the hell-?

"We're in the tunnel."

Romanov's voice cut Clint of mid-curse and his head whipped around to find her a few feel across the tunnel to the right of him and Phil, brushing off the dirt that clung to her blood stained cat-suit.

"Huh." Clint nodded, mostly to himself, taking in the dimly lit tunnel before turning to a clearly disgruntled Phil Coulson. "You did say you wanted a team to check out the tunnel." He reminded the older man.

"This was _not_ what I had in mind." Phil snapped back, rising to his feel with only a small grimace as he put weigh on what looked like a swollen ankle. He, took, took a good look around them before letting out a resigned sigh. "But I guess we're down here now…"

"The room we saw through the drop-box is that way." Romanov said, also on her feet now, nodding at the path in front of her. "If there's any evidence down here that might give us an I.D. it'll probably be in there."

Clint groaned as he rolled painfully to his feet, the cut along the side of his left leg screaming at him with every twitch. Phil reached out to steady him but Clint shook his head, forcing his legs to stay beneath him out of sheer force of will.

And anger. Quite a bit of anger.

"You think the engineer's down here?" Phil asked once Clint was steady, stepping a little further away to give him some space – but not enough that he wouldn't be able to catch him if he started to sway.

"No." Romanov answered firmly, starting down the tunnel towards the drop-box room, leaving Phil and Clint to follow her. "He wouldn't risk blowing the bar if he was this close."

"I agree. Something unexpected might happen." Clint grumbled, dusting himself off as much as he could before starting after the redhead. "Like the fucking tunnel collapsing."

They trudged through the tunnel in single file, Romanov leading the way, with Phil in the behind her and Clint watching their backs, until after only a few minutes of walking the tunnel came to a sudden end.

A dark, metal door stood at the very end of the tunnel – blocking their way into the drop-box room – and all three of them paused at the sight of it.

"It doesn't look locked." Clint said after a moment of silence, eyeing the door suspiciously.

"We're dealing with a bomb maker." Phil said tensely, taking a hesitant step forward to examine the door more closely. "I'm not worried about whether it's locked."

"If something detonates in here – in this small a space – we're going to be obliterated." Romanov said in an eerily calm tone, as if she was discussing real estate values rather than their possible annihilation.

"Good to know." Clint replied with an incredulous shake of his head before stepping forward to Phil's side. "What do you think Overwatch?"

"I can't see any obvious tampering or wiring – but the engineer's good so I doubt I would." Phil reported solemnly. "What about you? See anything suspicious – DON'T!"

It was too late.

Clint – who had been examining the walls and floor while they spoke – had reached around him and seized the door handle before swinging the large, metal door open.

Both Phil and Romanov froze, tensing as the door slid open to reveal an entirely bomb-free room before them.

"All good," Clint began sticking his head inside the large room and removing one of his desert-eagles from it's holster. "No boom."

"How did you know it wasn't rigged?" Phil rounded on him, practically fuming. "You did _know_ didn't you? If you just-"

"If the engineer was going to attach a bomb to anything it would have been the hatch," Clint pointed out, nodding towards the open drop-box that hung from the ceiling, which Romanov had broken open earlier. "It makes more sense as the door's more secure and the buyers have more contact with the hatch. It's more vulnerable."

Clint had wandered inside the room as he spoke, taking in the few tables and single lamp that made up its contents. Romanov followed him inside after a moment – examining the room for herself – with Phil trailing behind her.

"Not much here," Phil said, moving to the opposite side of the room where a small tunnel led away from the drop-room and further away from the bar. "We should keep going, the clean-up crew's going to be here in an hour or so, and we don't want to be down here when they start clearing it."

Clint led the way through the small room, with Phil and Romanov following close behind him, and entered into the small tunnel that led off from the empty room. It was smaller than the last – narrower and posing a real risk to Clint's forehead with its low hanging roof – but unlike the last it wasn't empty.

In the middle of the room sat another small table, on which different mechanical tools were scattered, and underneath was a fair sized pile of American cash. Even from across the room Clint could recognise some of the marked notes that He and Romanov had left.

"Think this is the work-station?" Clint asked.

"No." Phil said, picking up a couple of the tools and taking a closer look at them. "They'd need more equipment than this. This is probably just for modifications, and storage. Whoever they are-"

"-Lazare Nakani."

Both men's attention snapped to Romanov, who was standing in the far corner of the room examining something that was hanging from a small hook in the wall. Clint stepped closer. It was a Georgian Military uniform.

And the name Lazare Nakani was clearly printed across the breast pocket.

"We have a name." The pure astonishment in Clint's tone just about summed up their night.

"We have a name." Romanov repeated.

Clint shot a glance in her direction. In the pale light of Phil's phone she was ghostly pale. The only colour on her at all was the clumps of blood that had set across the entire left side of her face. She looked like shit.

The dampness and constant throb in Clint's leg left the impression that he probably looked no better.

"We need to get out of here." Phil said from behind him, as if reading Clint's mind. "The clean-up team with bag, and tag, all of this."

Clint nodded, glancing around the room one last time. Memorising it. "We need to get to the base in Turkey and figure out where to go from here."

Phil's clipped tone echoed in the small room.

"The only place you two are going is medical."

* * *

"God, would you stop poking me." Clint growled at the medical intern. "That leg's fine. It's the other one that has the damn hole in it."

It had taken them a few hours to reach the Turkish base by car, and by the time they did the sun had been rising. They'd no sooner arrived before Phil marched them both down to the infirmary to be looked over. Clint had been seconded by nurses and pushed into an emergency treatment room for his leg. He assumed the same had had happened to Romanov – she'd been sent off to be looked at as soon as they had arrived as well, and he hadn't caught even a glimpse of her since.

They'd left the underground workshop as it was, to be bagged-and-tagged by a clean-up crew, and then sorted through. Hopefully they would have some good leads within the next few hours – all that was left to do was butter Phil up a bit, so that the man would let he and Romanov out a little early and they could finally finish this.

As if reading his mind the older man appeared around the curtain that was shielding Clint's bed from view, and moved towards him.

"What's the verdict?"

"I'm fine-" Clint began, only to be cut off by the gruff, senior nurse at his side. Rude.

"A pretty deep laceration to the left leg, and a few burns that will require some constant attention for the next few weeks – but all in all not dire." The man shot Clint an unamused look. "Unfortunately." He muttered.

Clint shot him a glare. Asshole.

"Good." Phil said, either not hearing the off-hand comment, or choosing to ignore it – likely the second. "Because we have to talk about where to go from here." Phil shot a look at the nurse, and a moment later he and Clint were left alone.

"How do you really feel?" Phil asked, moving a little closer to the bed and running his eyes over Clint a little more thoroughly.

"I'm good, Phil." Clint sighed, pulling himself upright so he could sit on the bed with his legs hanging over the side. "Really."

"Okay," Phil accepted, with a small nod. "Then we need to talk about our next move – because as of a couple of hours ago our bomber is in the wind."

"Yeah." Clint huffed, running a hand through his dirty hair. "He wont come back to the drop site now – not even for the money. And he probably didn't leave a forwarding address." Clint added.

Phil fell silent for a couple of seconds, just enough to arouse Clint's suspicion.  
"Phil?"

"No forwarding address, no." Phil said slowly, the gears spinning in his head almost visible in his eyes as they stared at Clint unseeingly. "But he will have to leave a way for his clients to contact him."

Without another word Phil disappeared back through the curtain. Clint hastened to follow. Ignoring the disapproving glare he received from his nurse for his efforts, Clint trailed along behind Phil. They moved only a few feet up the hall before Phil tore back another curtain and stormed in on…nothing.

The bed was pristinely made, and empty.

Phil's face paled dramatically and, before Clint could even get a word out, he rounded on a passing nurse. The woman drew back at the suddenly very irate Phil Coulson.

"Where is the agent I left here?"

"A-agent, sir?" The nurse stuttered.

"Yes, agent." Phil clarified, getting more frustrated by the minute. "Short. Red hair. Blood _everywhere_. I sent her down here to be looked over."

"No one has come down here-"

"She _did_. I watched her walk-"

"-What's going on."

Romanov appeared, quite literally out of nowhere, at Clint's shoulder. He jumped just slightly – and then scowled at the small smirk on her face. Damn. That explosion had really thrown him off his game.

"Where the _hell_ were you?" Phil rounded on her. The nurse took the small opening that his distraction offered and made a break down the hall. Disappearing through set of double doors.

"Getting cleaned up." Romanov said, slightly defensive. There was a hint of confusion in the words though – as if she couldn't quite understand why Phil was asking.

Why he might care.

Clint looked her over critically. The gash on her forehead that had been leaking blood for hours had finally been stitched closed. She's clearly showered – and it had done wonders. No longer covered in blood she actually looked like she was in more-or-less one piece. There was some pretty significant bruising on her temple, just below the gash that arced up and disappeared within her hairline, and her lip had been sown closed. She had a few scattered burns on what little of her skin that was still on show despite the long-sleeve tactical gear she had hunted up, but other than that she looked pretty good for someone who had been in an explosion not even ten hours ago.

It was a vast improvement.

Phil seemed to come to the same conclusion.

"You look better." Phil said, eyeing her cautiously. "Someone look you over?"

The words weren't all that strange. Phil looked over for every agent under his command, sometimes even those who weren't. It was what made him such a good handler – and what had drawn Clint to him in the beginning. When he had first been taken in by S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint had been more than a little wary of them. He'd been used before – used to kill before even – but Phil had been different. He genuinely cared. Yeah, he was a hard-ass. He didn't accept anything but absolute commitment and effort – but genuinely he cared. He cared about the people around him. To him they weren't tools, or triggers, or whatever other terms management used to justify how they treated the people below them. They were all just people.

So the question itself wasn't all that strange – Phil was always concerned with the welfare of his people – what startled Clint so much was the absolute lack of distain in them.

Phil had made his position regarding Romanov very clear. He didn't trust her. He didn't like her. He didn't like the precarious position she put them in.

But there was something in his voice that Clint recognised. Worry. God knows it had been directed at him on more than one occasion – per week usually – and Clint understood. He'd been worried she was about to keel over when he'd caught sight of her at the bombsite, but he hadn't expected the same response in Phil. If anything he'd thought the older man would be relieved if she did suddenly fall into a coma or something. The tense set to the older man's shoulders told Clint he was wrong.

Phil Coulson was beginning to care.

Anyone else and Clint would have dismissed the thought, but this was Phil. This was the man Clint knew better than anyone else. Better than himself even. Somewhere along the line – probably around the time she'd saved Clint's hide from a massive explosion – Phil had finally started to come around.

Clint would have grinned if the situation weren't so dire.

"I'm ready to work." Romanov answered sternly. Noticeably ignoring the question. "What did you find?"

Phil hesitated, clearly tossing up his chances of getting her properly looked at. Eventually he reached the same conclusion as Clint. No fucking likely.

"Nothing as of yet," Phil huffed, slipping back into business mode. "He's gone underground – which means he'll have to set up a new way to contact his clients." Phil stared down at Romanov. "How did you find out about the drop originally?"

"I had job in Moldova when I was young." Romanov said shortly, her arms snaking upwards and crossing over her chest. "The man I was sent for was client. I followed him to it one night."

"Would he still be a client?" Phil asked.

"No." She answered without missing a beat. "He didn't survive our run in." She explained, her eyes flashing. "His son may be though."

"Who is he?"

"Artiom Morari."

Phil's eyes widened.

"Son of Damian Morari?" He asked, uncharacteristic surprise colouring his tone. "The mobster?"

"Yes."

"He's been dead for nearly nine years." Phil muttered, and Clint's eyebrows shot up. Nine years. _Jesus_. How young was she when she started? Phil's voice broke him from that rather depressing line-of-thought. The older man took a step back and ran an exhausted hand over his face. "Good news is he took over the family business after his father, so he likely uses the same contacts."

Romanov's brow furrowed.

"How does that help us?" She asked.

"We could politely ask him to put us in contact with our bomber." Clint suggested with a small shrug.

"Or," Phil countered. "You could say you have information about the compromised drop-site that you want to sell, and you'd be willing to offer a cut if he could put you in contact."

Clint tilted his head.  
"That could work too."

"Absolutely not."

The new voice rung out through the infirmaries hall, echoing down to where Phil, Romanov and Clint were gathered.

Clint turned slowly to watch a short, but clearly muscular, man march down the hall towards them. His face was almost red with pent up rage.

Huh. This was new. Usually Clint knew the people he had pissed off – and therefore knew to avoid them – this man however he had no recollection off. But he was definitely pissed off.

"Moldova is under the jurisdiction of this base – and therefore any decisions regarding action in that jurisdiction will also come _from this base_." The man seethed, coming to a halt just in front of the three of them and levelling them with a vicious glare.

"Excuse me." Clint asked. "Who are you?"

The man shot Clint a frustrated glance.

"I'm Cedric Gleeson, and this is my base."

"Yeah, I gathered that." Clint muttered.

Phil cut him off before he could say anything else – probably wise.

"Gleeson-"

The man – Gleeson – shot Phil a look of absolute distain. _Huh_.

"No Coulson. You want to do something in my jurisdiction – _something else_ actually – you can go through me."

Clint stepped forward, raising a calming hand in an effort to defuse the situation.

"What – dude, you have to chill-"

"It's fine Clint." Phil sighed, stepping forward – and pointedly in front of Clint and Romanov. "He's right." Phil said, nodding shortly at Gleeson. "We'd like to run an opp. in Moldova, specifically in the Morari family. They have information that-"

"Request denied."

Phil's eyebrows shot up.

"What?"

"My people will storm the house in Moldova and take Morari. You can question him when he's on the base."

"That," Clint began, barely holding in a bark of laughter. "Is a terrible idea. As soon as anyone with a tie to law-enforcement rocks up at his door he's not going to say shit." He argued. "We have to do this subtly."

Gleeson threw Clint an irritated look.

"You've done enough damage here."

Phil took another step forward.

"And you've let a weapons-manufacturer run rampant under your nose for the last twenty years."

Gleeson's eyes widened at Phil's words. The fury in them boiling over.

"Get off my base." Gleeson hissed. "Get _off_ my base-"

"It is _not_ your base. You run it." Phil cut the man off, sternly, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. "And not for very much longer." He muttered as he dialled.

Gleeson swallowed.

"What the hell are you doing-" He asked.

"Director." Phil answered, loudly. Gleeson paled. "Yes, we've made a fair bit of progress – but we've hit somewhat of a personnel wall." Phil nodded for a moment, and then passed the phone over to Gleeson. "He wants to talk to you."

Phil turned and walked away as soon as the other man snatched the phone. He stormed back to Clint and Natasha.

"Damn." Clint chuckled. "That was cold, Phil." Phil shot him an irate look. "What's his deal?" Clint asked – nodding towards the now pacing man. Yeah. Clint was not jealous of the man's current situation.

"We met at the Academy when were we both in training." Phil sighed, throwing a glance at the man behind him. "We didn't get along."

Clint snickered.

"You pull a Coulson and best him in _absolutely_ everything?"

Phil hesitated for a moment – and then shook his head slowly.

"No." He murmured. "I slept with his ex."

Clint's eyes all but burst from his skull.

" _Whaaaaaaat_?"

"-I was young." Phil cut in. "And they had broken up-"

"-Phil, you dirty _stud_."

"We don't have time for this." Phil ground out, ignoring Clint chuckles and rounding on Romanov "Can get into the Morari house?" He asked, probably a bit more forcefully than was necessary.

"Probably." Romanov said.

"Will Artiom recognise you."

Her expression soured. "Definitely." Phil grimaced. "He may not be necessary though." Romanov continued, and Clint finally pulled his attention away from a still fuming Gleeson to listen. "When I was there they had a chief-of-staff, Ion Borta, who dealt with the day-to-day affairs. He died not long after Damian Morari, but his replacement would know the contact details of everyone they do business with."

"That sounds like an 'in' to me." Clint shrugged.

Phil nodded slowly, glancing between the two agents. "Are you two up for this?" He asked, eyes serious and searching.

It was a fair question – Clint couldn't deny that. And while any other time he would have scoffed and responded with the most inappropriate retort he could think of, this time was different. It wasn't just him on the line.

Clint shot a glance towards Romanov, only to find her gaze already fixed on him. Despite the fact that neither of them had had any semblance of sleep in the last twenty-four hours – and that they'd been all but blown to shit – her eyes were alight. Ready.

A small smirk spread across Clint lips.

"We're good, Overwatch." He said. Romanov sent Phil a small nod of her own when the older man looked over at her. "Besides, if everything goes to plan, this is just going to be a friendly exchange of goods." Clint added.

"When does everything, ever, go to plan?"

"I take personal offence at that." Clint scoffed. "There was that one time in Minnesota."

"One time in three years is not a great record, Clint."

Clint shrugged, unperturbed.

Behind them Gleeson finally hung up the phone, and then stomped over to where the three of them were waiting. Clint eyed the man. His evident fury hadn't ebbed – if anything it looked like the storm behind his eyes had only grown – but he was no longer spitting fire.

Fury must have dressed him down. Hard

"Take whatever you need." Gleeson ground out through his teeth. Shoving the phone back at Phil he turned and stalked away without another word.

"Your hospitality is noted, and appreciated."

Phil's words were dry and barely loud enough for the man to hear – but he did. He paused for a moment, and Clint tensed. Ready to throw himself across the hall at him if he tried _anything_.

But he didn't. A moment later he continued his way down the hall and disappeared from sight.

Clint turned back to Phil and Romanov, a wide grin spreading over his face.

"This is amazing." He sung. Phil rolled his eyes and let out a put-upon sigh. "Someone, for an entirely personal reason, hates you and not me – this is the best day of my life."

Phil levelled him with a weary look.

"You almost got blown up today."

Clint nodded, and then paused thoughtfully. "Nope." He sang a moment later. "Doesn't even ruin it." Phil's scowl depended. "This _is_ the best day of my life."

Phil didn't grace the words with a response. Sparing a look down at his watch the older man shot a look at the two agents.

"Get yourselves signed off by medical – I'll get the gear together." He ordered. Before Clint could say anything else he, too, marched away down the hall and disappeared from sight.

Clint glanced over at Romanov, who had watched the exchange blankly. He eyed the neat – but oddly slanted – stiches on her temple that he'd noted earlier. They were excellent, even and clearly practised, but the slant was off. Almost as if whoever had down them had had to do it using a mirror, rather than looking straight down at them.

"Nice stitches." He murmured. She shot him a dark look, as if daring him to comment. He didn't. He got it. He'd been weary in the beginning too. The fact that she was still here at all, despite having ample time to make a break for it in the last few hours, spoke volumes. He'd take what he could get.

"You good?" He asked instead, taking in the neat row of stiches and the clear tension in her torso. He'd seen how tenderly she moved just after the explosion. _Something_ was definitely broken in there.

She nodded again, just like she had to Phil, and Clint decided not to push it. There would come a time when both of them were ready to push – move their relationship past 'probably-not-going-to-kill-each-other' and onto 'I-don't-really-like-you-as-a-person-but-I-have-your-back'.

It was a work in progress.

"Good. Let's go find us a bomb-maker." Clint grinned. Romanov didn't react. He huffed but let it go, moving past her and scanning the relatively quiet infirmary around them. "And an easily manipulated doctor that – oh, hello."

* * *

I am _very_ aware that it's been over a year since I updated this particular story - and unfortunately I don't really have a reason why. I think I just kind of lost touch with it, and then forgot about it altogether until I found this chapter (already half done) on my computer. I figured it was a waste just to let what was already written just sit on my computer so I finished it and decided to post it - and along the way kind of got back into the story.

I'm still not sure if I should continue? I have another idea for a Clintasha universe that I have been considering writing for a while (goddamn I just love the two so much) which would again start from when she was brought into SHEILD, but they delve much more into the Red Room parts of her past. And her relationships there. I just don't know..

Let me know what you think? Continue yay or nay? Write a new universe of fics yay or nay? ... I'm just so conflicted.


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